


One Heart Missing

by starlightment



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cute, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Keith (Voltron), Idiots in Love, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Roommates, Slow Burn, Smut, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, everyone's in their 20s, klance, look they're trying really hard but they're both morons ok, omg they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14466192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightment/pseuds/starlightment
Summary: When Keith starts falling for his womanizing friend, Lance, he knows he's in for a disaster. After all, they're not lovers. Not even close. They're just roommates. The best of buddies. But sometimes the lines get a little blurry... [AU. Klance.]





	1. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, Keith has never met someone like Lance, who stares so courageously into his chaos and, in spite of it all, chooses to weather the storm, anyway.
> 
> He must be insane, Keith thinks. Downright fucking insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: So I swore to myself that I'd be taking things one fic at a time from now on, BUT THAT'S JUST NOT HOW LIFE WORKS, IS IT? This idea was literally begging me to write it out and, originally, it wasn't going to turn into anything substantial, but I should know by now that that's exactly how all of my fics get started -- by total and complete accident. But anyway, I'm very happy to be sharing this with the fandom. It's a story that I'm very passionate about, and lives very close to my heart. So I truly hope you enjoy!

_"I'm calling your name,_  
_but you won't listen._  
_Tonight was made for two,_  
_but there's one heart missing..."_

* * *

 

**May 2017**

The door creaks open, hinges rusty.  _They should get that fixed soon_ , says the woozy little voice in the back of Keith's half-unconscious mind.

A crisp nighttime breeze follows them in, swirls through the quiet warmth of the apartment, and then disappears behind the  _click_  of the deadbolt. There's the sound of footsteps shuffling clumsily around the living room floor. There are hands pawing impatiently at clothing. There are hushed voices, desperate, needy, breathless.

" — Which way to your —"

" —  _mmf_  — this way —"

More shuffling. More hitching breaths, more tiny moans. Keith's eyelids flutter open, and he finds himself on the couch, surrounded by textbooks and worksheets, with the television still humming softly about whatever he'd accidentally fallen asleep to.

The two shadows move across the floor, entangled, inching closer to one of the bedrooms. Keith is careful not to stir, muscles tensed and frozen solid.

" —  _god_ , you feel so good —"

" — want you  _so bad_  —"

Keith shuts his eyes again, so tight that it almost hurts, as if it'll help to drown out the husky purr of his roommate's voice, or the delicate murmurs of his late-night guest.

And he tries not to think about how many different, yet unanimously unrecognizable female voices he's heard coming and going from their apartment within the last few months. He really,  _really_  tries.

He hears the beginnings of a whimper, poorly disguised behind a short, throaty chuckle, and followed by the smack of wet, swollen lips pulling apart.  _About time_ , Keith's mind chides against his will.  _They have to come up for air eventually._

" — Keep that up and we won't even make it to my bed," says that low, tantalizing purr.

"Who says we have to?" replies that pretty murmur.

Their muffled laughter mingles together, soprano and baritone, and Keith can feel his stomach churn, hot and heavy. He turns his head, pressing his cheek even harder into the cushion of their threadbare couch, his mind grappling for just about anything that will keep itself from listening to the  _thunk_  of Lance's bedroom door — anything to banish the intrusive mental images of whatever might be happening  _behind_  that closed door.

Lance's hands, slow and gentle as they explore a new canvas of smooth curves. Lance's eyes, lust-blown and still impossibly blue as he admires, adores. Lance's lips, hungry and yearning, caressing soft, exposed skin as he whispers  _you're beautiful, you're perfect, you're mine._

Keith doesn't realize his fists are clenched until there's pain in the small indents where his nails have been. He also doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until his chest heaves, aching and hollow. He hates this, he hates this,  _he hates this._

And he hates  _himself_  a little bit, too.

* * *

 

She's standing by the kitchen counter the following morning, sipping coffee from one of their chipped ceramic mugs, the faded material of one of Lance's umpteen blue hoodies draped over her petite frame.

For the most part, Keith ignores her. Introductions, he's come to learn, are a pointless formality when the likelihood of seeing the same girl more than once is tragically slim. It's only after Keith has poured himself a bowl of cereal and taken a seat at the table that a single word is spoken.

"Morning," says the girl; timid, but not embarrassed.

Keith gives some form of a grunt through his mouthful of Frosted Flakes.

She's cute, Keith notes, in a conventional way. Pouty lips, a button nose, a light dusting of freckles across her fair skin — definitely Lance's type. The hoodie is oversized, slouchy, clashing dramatically with her copper-colored hair, and Keith doesn't know why it bothers him so much.

(That's a lie. He knows  _exactly_  why he's bothered. And, in fact, it has very  _little_  to do with complementary colors.)

" _Wow_. A guy could really get used to waking up to  _this_."

Lance strolls into the kitchen next, bright-eyed and only slightly disheveled in his striped pajama bottoms, no shirt to be seen.  _He's really milking it_ , Keith thinks with an internal eye roll. Lance's hands go straight for the girl's waist, and they share a dopily smitten grin before she lifts onto her toes, meeting his lips for a kiss.

" _Mm_. Ditto," she giggles against his mouth, sliding a palm down the front of Lance's bare chest.

Keith glares down into his cereal and forces himself to swallow another mouthful.

"I should head to work, but," she pauses, places her mug onto the countertop, and lowers her voice to something that is probably intentionally coy, "thanks for a fun night."

"Pleasure's all mine, babe."

They dip in for another kiss, and when this one lingers for a few moments too long, Keith takes an unnecessarily loud  _slurp_  from his bowl.

They break apart, and Lance says, "I'll call you later."

 _No, he won't_ , Keith feels like saying, but doesn't.

"Oh, your hoodie —"

"Keep it," he insists, and Keith can practically hear the smirk on his face. "Looks cuter on you, anyway."

Then Keith really  _does_  roll his eyes.

There's the sound of more smooching from eager lips, a reluctant goodbye, and a pair of heels click-clacking out of the room — all punctuated by the resounding  _clunk_  of their front door. Almost immediately, Lance begins to jump, wiggle, and flail around in some kind of victory dance, which ends with him leaning in close to his unaffected roommate.

"And  _that's_  why they call me Loverboy La—"

"Put a fucking shirt on," Keith deadpans, placing a hand over Lance's face and shoving him away. "I'm trying to eat over here."

* * *

  **June 2017**

Keith knows that there are three consistencies in his life that he can always count on, without fail.

The first is that the universe likes to  _push_ , assert its cruel dominance over mere mortals, and the only acceptable solution is to push back  _harder_.

The second is that his dad will never call him on his actual birthday. He supposes that the sentiment is still the same, even when he calls the day after, muttering more apologies and excuses than well wishes, but sometimes he thinks it'd be easier if he didn't call at all so that he doesn't have to sit with the annual reminder that his own father has, once again, forgotten about his only son.

And the third is Lance.

It's an enigma, really, because Keith has never known a person to stick around when the going gets rough —  _especially_  when the going gets rough. When Keith got suspended during his sophomore year for back-talking his calculus professor, Lance had stayed. When Keith was being reckless and crashed his new motorbike into a lamp post, earning him three stitches and a bruised rib, Lance had stayed. And even when Keith swung a particularly aggressive right hook to his face (It was the first and only time one of their heated arguments actually came to blows. Keith doesn't even remember what the upset had been about, but he remembers the look on Lance's face after he staggered back from the hit — so startled and  _crushed_.), Lance had stayed, black eye and all.

No, Keith has never met someone like Lance, who stares so courageously into his chaos and, in spite of it all, chooses to weather the storm, anyway.

 _He must be insane_ , Keith thinks.  _Downright fucking_   _insane_.

* * *

  **July 2017**

" — I mean, I know she hasn't  _actually_  said that she likes me  _out loud_  yet, but there was that one time she told me I look nice in blue. Like, what d'you think  _that_  was supposed to mean?"

"That she has bad taste," Keith grumbles. His arm shoots out from beneath the elevated car. "Torque."

Lance, lounging on the hood of the car, sighs and rummages through the toolbox, dropping the wrench into Keith's expectant hand.

"And then there was the time I told her she has better curves than my physics exam — she didn't even roll her eyes!"

"Screwdriver."

"Not my  _best_  line, I know, but —"

"Lance. Screwdriver.  _Now_."

Keith stares disbelievingly at his hand when Lance provides him with another wrench. He slides out from beneath the car, frowning. "Are you even listening to me?"

Lance frowns back, indignantly. "Are  _you_  even listening to  _me_?"

"I'm at work," Keith reminds. "They don't pay me enough to sit around and listen to you whine about Allura."

"I've seen your paychecks, man," Lance scoffs. "They don't pay you enough to actually  _work on cars_ , either."

Lance's shrill yelp is only mildly satisfactory when Keith hurls a spare bolt socket onto the hood.

If Keith has to hear another word about the latest crush of the month, then Lance might be getting something more  _dangerous_  than a bolt socket to the head. He clambers to his feet, but gloved hands pause before they can reach the toolbox, momentarily distracted by the sight of his roommate. At some point, the muggy summer heat had prompted Lance to remove his flannel, knotting it around his waist to reveal a thin, white undershirt. And despite the multitude of electric fans blowing strategically around the garage, he still appears slightly dewey with perspiration, his undershirt clinging to every dip, angle, and contour of his broad chest. And then there's his  _arms_  — unintentionally flexed as they rest behind his head of tousled hair. Lance's lips are still moving, but there's a sudden ringing in Keith's ears, drowning out everything that isn't his hammering pulse, his ragged inhale, his mind chanting a stern  _stop, stop, stop_  —

" —Keith?"

He blinks mindlessly. "Hm?"

"Uh, dude? Buddy? My man?" Lance swings his legs around the side of the car to face his bewildered friend, an eyebrow quirking as he asks, "I said, do I?"

"Do you what?"

"Look good in blue."

Oh. They're  _still_  talking about that.  _Great_. Keith finally comes to, idly scratching the back of his head, which causes even more errant strands to fall loose from his messy ponytail.

"I don't know. I guess?" he says. "It brings out your eyes."

Although the last comment escapes his mouth by accident, Lance still appears thrilled, back straightening and lips curling into a small, gratified grin. Keith fixes his attention back on the toolbox, rifling through its contents even though he's long forgotten what he's looking for.

"Hey, grease monkey."

Keith's head snaps up a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly.

Lance is chuckling softly, a hand reaching out toward his roommate's face. "You got a little something…"

Engine grease, most likely, smudged across his cheek. But Lance's fingers barely make it there before Keith comes to his senses and swats his hand away with a huff.

"Cut it out," he snaps, using the back of his wrist instead, which only seems to smear the grime even further across his face. Lance just chuckles again.

"Yeah, yeah, I forgot —  _don't touch the merchandise_ ," he teases, and slides himself off the hood of the car. "I should get going, anyway. I'm sweating my ass off in here."

Keith shakes his head, and swipes a screwdriver out of the toolbox.  _There it is_. "Yeah, good riddance."

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Lance sings with exaggerated sweetness, "Have a nice day at work, honey!"

"Get lost, Lance."

A quick wave and the sound of his laughter carry him off, starting down the street to walk the convenient twelve blocks home. Keith watches him go, just for a second, before lifting his arm to swipe it over his face again, clearing the rest of the dark residue off his skin.

_What an idiot._

* * *

  **August 2017**

They spend their last month of vacation in Cuba.

Lance is due a visit home, and when he discovers that the rest of Keith's summer plans consist of nothing but sitting around their apartment and tinkering with that metal death trap he calls a motorbike, he vehemently insists that he come along.

"Your mom won't mind?" Keith had wondered when he finally caved.

"Are you kidding?" Lance had snorted. "You look like you're in desperate need of a hug and a decent meal, so she's gonna  _love_  you."

On the plane ride, Keith splits his time between sharing a pair of earbuds — Lance forgot his own — and listening to Lance prattle animatedly about his family, the beach, the food until, apparently, he wears himself out and falls asleep. His head droops sideways, limp, and rests against Keith's shoulder, gently jostled by a bit of turbulence. Keith's entire right arm goes painfully numb, but he doesn't dare move a muscle until they land.

Lance's childhood house is warm, cozy, and flooding with people. Keith idly wonders how anyone is supposed to get a moment to themselves around here, and then Lance's utter disregard for personal boundaries suddenly makes more sense. There's constant chatter and socialization, which would normally make Keith squirm, but, somehow, he still feels oddly comforted by the rowdy household.

He meets Lance's mom, a kind woman with a hearty laugh, who really  _does_  give the best hugs, just as Lance had said. He looks at pictures of Lance's dad, an ex-marine who passed away when Lance was still a baby. He is introduced to more cousins than he can even recall, more nieces and nephews than he can even count, and then Lance leads him out to the back patio, where his grandmother sits in a wooden rocking chair, overlooking the shoreline.

" _Lita_ ," says Lance, beaming. "I want you to meet my friend, Keith."

His grandmother is all grey hair, wrinkles, and warm smiles, and she looks at Keith with a pair of blue eyes that could've only been inherited by Lance.

She looks back to her grandson, takes his hand, and whispers,  _"¿Estás seguro de que no es más que eso, mi niño?"_

Lance recoils, "Lita, no!"

Keith never found out what that question meant. He didn't remember to ask. But it made Lance blush, and  _that's_  something he won't soon forget.

They fill their days with trips to the beach, lounging in the sun and floating lazily on the waves. Lance tries to teach Keith how to surf, and neither of them can remember the last time they laughed so hard. They rent cruiser bikes and explore the street market, dodging the free-roaming chickens, and taking in the nineteenth-century architecture. And when they get hungry, Lance takes him to his favorite pizza shack, where they split a slice and a basket of garlic knots, watching the ocean shimmer brilliantly in the distance.

One evening, Lance pays a street performer fifteen pesos to borrow his guitar for ten minutes, and it's the first time Keith has ever really heard him play. He sits cross-legged under a street lamp in Josone Park, plucking out chords, grinning as he sings a simple tune. The glow of the lamp does something  _spectacular_  to Lance's eyes, sprinkling bits of moonlight into those blue orbs, and Keith just watches, spellbound.

The following afternoon, Lance's family decides to invade the beach, laying out blankets, opening umbrellas, and packing enough food to feed what appears to be an entire army. But by the time each and every picnic basket had been emptied, the sun starts to sink over the horizon. A few family members have already retreated back to the house for the night, but Keith stays where he is, only a few inches away from the edge of the tide. He is propped up by his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, toes digging into the soft, golden sand. His gaze is transfixed on the sunset, admiring how pink fades to orange, orange blends into red.

He hears the crunch of sand approaching from behind, followed by a meek, high-pitched, "Hello."

Keith glances sideways to find a head of wild brunette curls plopping down beside him. The young girl wears a frilly yellow bathing suit, a Barbie bandaid to hide a scratch on her left knee, and Keith vaguely remembers her as Lance's six-year-old niece, Rosie.

"Hey," he says awkwardly.

"Are you an astronaut like Uncle Lance?"

Keith almost corrects her that being an astronomy major in college is not the same thing as being an astronaut, but something about her big, doe-like eyes makes him feel a bit guilty for even considering it.

"Uh," he mutters. "No. I study mechanical engineering."

Rosie stares at him. Keith sighs.

"I build robots."

"Cool!" She smiles wide and points to the small gap in her front row of teeth. "I lost a tooth today."

Keith smiles, too, subtle but endeared. "Cool."

"Uncle Lance said he's gonna name a whole  _planet_  after me one day."

On the other end of the beach, Keith catches a glimpse of Lance as he tosses a frisbee toward his cousin, whooping and cheering when he catches it midair.

"I bet he will," says Keith, turning back to Rosie to find her studying him hard, eyebrows comically furrowed.

"Are you and Uncle Lance best friends?" she asks at long last.

Keith appears perplexed by such a blatant question, but he still forces out a slightly strangled, "I — guess so?"

"I knew it." Rosie seems pleased. "I knew it because he looks at you funny."

"Funny?" Keith repeats.

"Mhm," she hums, and then flashes her missing tooth again. "He looks at you just like he looks at the stars."

Another stolen glance off to the distance. Lance is on the ground now, rolling around in the sand, heaving huge peals of laughter as his cousin and a few of his younger nephews pile on top of him.

Forget the stars, Keith thinks. Because now there's an entire  _galaxy_  right in front of his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For once, I actually had a vague outline planned before I started writing, and I don't foresee any of the chapters getting much longer than this (I say that NOW, haha!). As you can probably already tell, I'm sticking to this chronological "month-by-month" format, which is hopefully a little easier to follow compared to my Digimon fic, About Us, which time-jumped around quite a bit. I'm just!! so happy!! to finally get this story out there, I'm beyond grateful to everyone who takes the time to read this. Thank you! 
> 
> I'll have the next chapter ready very soon! As usual, updates and previews will be posted on my tumblr (link in profile). 
> 
> PS. I'M SO SORRY IF MY SPANISH IS ATROCIOUS. I don't know any myself, or anyone who could help with the translation, so please don't come for me if it's majorly screwed up dshgfgs!! I don't mean any disrespect!


	2. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You --" For a moment, Lance sounds like he’s about to go off, really give Keith a piece of his mind, but then he stops himself, as if the words are tangled around his tongue, or lodged deep inside his throat. He visibly deflates, shoulders hunching, gaze fixed on the ground as he watches Keith’s discarded cigarette fizzle and smoke to a premature death. And when he tries to speak again, his voice is low, barely there. "You wouldn’t understand, man. It’s just that… everyone’s got a thing. Y’know? Everyone except me. I’m thing-less." 
> 
> "You’re not thing-less, you idiot," Keith says sternly. "You have things." 
> 
> "Name one thing." 
> 
> "You can get yourself completely wasted off two shots of tequila." 
> 
> "I’m being serious!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I don't have much to compare it to yet, but this chapter might end up being one of my favorites. It was definitely a joy to write, so I hope it's equally as enjoyable to read. :) Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment, follow, and all that good stuff. It's very appreciated!!

_"My lonely heart was made for two,_   
_it beats too slowly without you._   
_You wanna know what we could be,_   
_but you won't give your love to me..."_

* * *

 

**September 2017**

“ _Ugh_ ,” Lance groans in disgust, peering over the rim of his red solo cup. “Just _look at him_.”

Pidge, Hunk, and Keith all glance over their shoulders curiously, following their friend’s narrowed gaze to the opposite end of the room, but the lights are so dim, and there are just so many bodies milling about that it’s nearly impossible to distinguish one person from the next.

So Hunk squints and dares to ask, “Look at who?”

“Who _else_ , dude?” says Lance, unimpressed. “The prince of house parties himself. _Ugh_. He’s literally the _worst_.”

A bit of context helps everything come into focus — well, _mostly_ everything — but, luckily, Keith knows that there’s only one person who can get Lance so riled up with just a fleeting, across-the-room glance. When Keith steals another look, his eyes catch a small crowd of classmates in the distance. They’re all huddled around a tall, model-esque adonis with a chiseled jawline and hair so blond that it almost appears white. _Lotor_. He’s no prince, like Lance proclaims, but not even Keith can deny that the upperclassman certainly knows how to throw a successful rager. Everybody on campus always seems to flock to him in droves, entranced by his air of mystique, his otherworldly charisma, maybe. Keith isn’t quite sure how to describe Lotor’s strange magnetism because he resides firmly in the minority of students who couldn’t really care less about the so-called social hierarchy.

“If he’s the worst,” Pidge begins dryly, “then why do you always insist on coming to his parties?”

Lance almost looks offended. “Because anyone who’s _anyone_ comes to his parties. _Duh_.”

A collective eye roll makes its way around the small circle they’ve formed in the kitchen. Typical Lance.

“I don’t get how it’s always a popularity thing with you,” Keith sighs. “I mean, what are you, twelve?”

“On a scale of one to ten, _yeah_ ,” Lance sniffs, and a smirk almost crosses his face before he’s distracted, again, by that weirdly unidentifiable magnetism that Keith still doesn’t understand. “Oh my _god_ , can you believe this guy? Look — _look!_ ”

Lance gestures so emphatically that the contents of his cup slosh around, and Hunk has to take a step back to avoid getting splashed.

“What is it now, Lance?” 

“He’s working that crowd harder than a stripper works a pole on a Saturday night!”

“He’s the _host_ ,” Pidge reminds, once again, dryly. “He’s _supposed_ to be making the rounds.”

“Silence, _munchkin_.”

And then Hunk says, “Oh, hey, isn’t that Allura?”

Lance’s head whips around so quickly that Keith swears he hears a bone crack. Indeed, Allura has suddenly entered their line of sight, her long, wavy locks piled high atop her head in stylish disarray, a sensible dress hugging her curves and flowing around her ankles. _Effortlessly classy_ , Keith thinks. It’s no wonder the crowd seems to part for her like the Red Sea.

“Oh. Hell. _No_ ,” Lance hisses, watching as Lotor leans in, whispering something into Allura’s ear that makes her grin. “No, no, no, no, _no_ — now he’s — I’m — _hold my drink_ —“ He carelessly drops his cup to the side, and Pidge has no choice but to grab it before it spills all over the floor. “ — _I’m goin’ in._ ”

“Godspeed, cadet.”

Hunk and Pidge give him a facetious salute and Lance, feeding off of their encouragement, pops the collar of his jacket and marches into the throng. It’s only after his retreating back disappears amongst the masses that Pidge pipes up again.

“My money’s on Lotor.”

“Oh, _definitely_.”

Normally, Keith would jump at the chance to chime into a conversation about their incorrigible friend’s misadventures, but he appears too preoccupied with the way the top of Lance’s head bobs and weaves through the crowd. The way he somehow manages to weasel himself through, sidling up to Allura and acting as if bumping into her were mere coincidence. The way their hug lingers a few seconds too long, and Lance throws a _not-so-subtle_ scowl at Lotor from over her bare shoulder.

The way he flirts and chats and makes eyes at the prettiest girl on campus. The way he laughs too loud and smiles too big, screaming a silent mantra of _notice me, notice me._

A very small but stubborn voice in the back of Keith’s mind echoes the same — _notice me, notice me…_  

“ —Keith?”

Suddenly he’s back at the party, bodies mingling, music blaring. He blinks. “Huh?”

Hunk furrows his brow, concerned. “I said we’re gonna go find Shay and Matt so we can play some beer pong. You in, man?”

“I’ll —“ Keith settles back, leaning against the edge of the kitchen island. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Had he been a bit more observant in that moment, he might’ve been able to pick up on the subtle knowing glance that’s briefly shared between Hunk and Pidge before they, too, wade into the crowd.

But he isn’t. So he doesn’t.

* * *

 

When the stench of stale liquor and sweaty bodies becomes too much, Keith finds his way outside. He slips out the front door and takes a seat on the stoop, grateful as the roar of the stereo and boisterous conversation fades to nothing but a faint echo against the inside of his ear. He’s never been a fan of parties, but sometimes he tolerates them for Lance’s sake.

 _Lance_.

Lance, who is probably inside, still mingling, right now. Scouring the throngs of fellow social-climbers for a girl with pretty eyes, a sweet smile. Then he’ll lure her in with one of his cliche lines, and she’ll giggle, probably too inebriated to realize how tactless he really is. Maybe he’ll offer to grab her another drink. Maybe he’ll invite her to go somewhere quiet where they can talk. Maybe he’ll take her home with him…

Keith jumps to his feet, brow pinched, and begins pacing up and down the concrete steps, not unlike a caged lion, sweltering, primal adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fists clench and unclench, until restless fingers dig into his jacket pocket for something to do. They retrieve a cigarette, twisting it around in his hand for a moment before deciding to light it, and the first drag is a deep, heavy inhale.

As a cloud of smoke seeps past his lips, through his nostrils, and up toward the starless night sky, he feels a sudden tug at his right hand.

“I thought you quit that.”

Apparently the front door had swung open again, and Lance had wandered out just in time to snatch the cigarette from Keith’s hand, stomping it out against the cold ground.

Keith looks him up and down, and then nods toward the beer bottle in his hand. “Could say the same to you.”

“Since when?” Lance snorts.

“Since the last party when you drank yourself senseless trying to beat Lotor at a shot contest.”

Lance snorts again, louder, more indignant. “I did _not_ drink myself senseless.”

“Don’t try arguing with the guy who was responsible for dragging your drunk ass all the way home that night,” says Keith.

When Lance is out of excuses (or just too tipsy to care anymore — Keith can’t quite tell), he huffs and plops himself down, taking a seat on the top step of the stoop. “Yeah, well…” he trails off aimlessly, scuffing his shoe against the concrete, spinning the neck of the bottle around between his fingertips. “You won’t have to worry about _that_ again. S’not like I stand more of a chance _now_ than I did then.”

There’s a distinctly miserable quality to Lance’s tone that has Keith crossing his arms. “So what? Who cares?”

“ _I_ care!”

“Yeah, but _why_?”

“ _You_ —“ For a moment, Lance sounds like he’s about to go off, really give Keith a piece of his mind, but then he stops himself, as if the words are tangled around his tongue, or lodged deep inside his throat. He visibly deflates, shoulders hunching, gaze fixed on the ground as he watches Keith’s discarded cigarette fizzle and smoke to a premature death. And when he tries to speak again, his voice is low, barely there. “You wouldn’t understand, man. It’s just that… everyone’s got a _thing_. Y’know? Everyone except me. I’m _thing-less._ ”

“You’re not _thing-less_ , you idiot,” Keith says sternly. “You have things.”

“Name _one_ thing.”

“You can get yourself completely wasted off two shots of tequila.”

“I’m being serious!”

Perhaps it had been too poorly lit to notice before, but when Lance glances up, Keith can see for the first time just how distraught he looks. His lips are pulled taut across his face, rather than puckered into his usual childish pout. And his eyes, now stormy and dark, seem to have lost their pearlescent luster, drowning in whatever foul mood he’s spiraled his way into. If Keith hadn’t already been leaning against the metal hand railing, he might’ve had to grasp it right then, just to keep himself from staggering backwards in the wake of that forlorn stare.

Lance bites down on his bottom lip before continuing, “Sometimes I feel kinda… _useless_. I dunno. I always thought college was where you’re supposed to find yourself or whatever, but here we are, senior year, and I _still_ don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Hunk’s going to culinary school, and Pidge already has that internship at MIT all lined up. And you…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a freaking genius, Keith,” says Lance, and Keith makes a loud scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Seriously. You just _get_ things. It’s like you don’t even have to try.”

After a few passing beats of silence and careful scrutiny, Keith finally realizes that this isn’t some alcohol-induced hissy fit that Lance has concocted inside his head for attention — It’s his genuine truth, and Keith is a little upset with himself for not picking up on it sooner. Maybe it’s a testament to Lance’s smile, and how easily he’s able to use it as a shield. Or maybe Keith had just decided to ignore all the clues, the fleeting glimpses behind a cracked exterior, because it’s easier that way, less messy. He prefers to think it’s the former. 

“Lance,” Keith sighs, his voice oddly hoarse, but, in its own way, still gentle. He drops down and takes a seat beside him, nearly shoulder to shoulder. “Look — just because you don’t have plans after graduation doesn’t mean you’re useless.”

“Then what _am_ I good for?” he wonders. “Like, does the world even _need_ me?”

_I need you. I need you. I need —_

Keith shuts his eyes tight, willing those kinds of thoughts away, and says instead, “Remember when Hunk first met Shay?”

The crease in Lance’s brow settles deeper, more puzzled. “Um, yeah?”

“He was too scared to go up and talk to her, so you broke the ice for him. You told her all about how great he is, and that he’s the nicest guy you’ve ever met.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause it’s true.”

“And they’ve been together for, what, two years now?”

“I guess so… But what —“

“And remember the time Shiro was stressing out about his LSATs?” Keith is looking right at Lance now, his hardened stare firm and unwavering. “You pulled all-nighters with him for at least a week, just to help him study.”

“… Yeah.”

“He got into his top choice law school, didn’t he?”

“Keith —“

“And remember last year, right before Christmas break, when Pidge’s flight home was cancelled? You drove six hours out of your way, in a fucking snow storm, to drop her off at the train station, just so she could still make it home on time.” 

“Keith.”

“ _Lance_.” He shakes his head. “None of that would’ve happened without you.”

There’s only silence. Even the muffled commotion of the party still raging behind them seems to be drowned out by this wordless moment sitting stagnant between them. Keith is looking at Lance, and Lance is looking at Keith, mouth slightly agape, eyes dashing back and forth across his face, as if he’s trying to fathom something impossible.

“Huh,” Lance finally says, more of an exhale than an actual exclamation. The corners of his mouth slowly begin to curl upward. “Now that you mention it… I _am_ pretty awesome, aren’t I?”

“I already regret saying any of that.”

Lance laughs, and even though Keith can tell it’s still only a ghost of what it normally is, it’s still progress, and it even causes the slightest lift to his own lips.

“Thanks, man,” he says softly. 

Keith shrugs his shoulders.

More silence. It’s comfortable and calm.

And then Lance is bounding to his feet, briefly dusting off his pants. “So anyway, enough of _that_ — let’s go do this thing!”

“What thing?”

“Beer pong, Kogane, keep up.” Lance reaches out a hand, offering it to Keith. “I’m pretty sure we got ourselves a championship to _dominate_.”

* * *

 

**October 2017**

When Lance decides to get his very first tattoo, Keith is positive he’s only doing it for the shock value, the desire for something cool and trendy to brag about, because something like that isn’t very far from his roommate’s realm of reason.

Also because he knows that Lance doesn’t _do_ needles.

And this knowledge is made gravely obvious when Keith finds himself seated next to Lance in a small, if not mildly over-priced tattoo shop on a Sunday afternoon. He has settled on the inside of his right wrist — a terribly _unwise_ choice, in Keith’s opinion, which he isn’t afraid to share. Multiple times.

“It’s gonna hurt like hell,” Keith had warned earlier that day, voice tired and halfhearted, because he knows that his words are destined to fall upon deaf, foolish ears.

“Hah!” Lance had guffawed pompously. “I _laugh_ in the face of pain!”

Well, he’s certainly not laughing _now_. In fact, Keith can detect the slightest hint of moisture gathering in the corners of Lance’s eyes, sealed shut, airtight. His other hand is gripping Keith’s forearm so violently that he swears his fingers are turning purple, but he just breathes through the pain, slow and steady, motivating Lance to do the same.

“Gimme an update, dude,” Lance says, still wincing. “How’s it coming along?”

Keith takes a quick look and then answers, “I have an _inkling_ that he’s almost done.”

Lance’s mouth twitches once, twice, a third time, until he’s snickering so much that the tattoo artist asks him to please hold still.

When they finally leave the shop, Keith has a five-point bruise on his arm and Lance has a small doodle of saturn on the inside of his wrist. He keeps staring at it, wiggling it around, watching how the sunlight reflects off the thin sheen of moisturizer that covers the tender skin. Before they can even cross the street, Lance is shoving his wrist in Keith’s face, grinning wide, eyes still slightly watery.

“I’m a fucking _badass_.”

“Yeah,” says Keith, chuffing out a laugh. “You look good.”

The next day, as they’re stopping for coffee in the campus cafeteria, Lance makes a show of flourishing his credit card to the barista, making sure that the sleeve of his jacket hikes up a little higher than normal to reveal his new tattoo. Keith ignores it. It happens a second time when Lance hands Keith his grande americano, extending his arm a bit awkwardly so that the thin black ink is in plain sight. Keith ignores it again. But when it happens a _third_ time, quite conspicuously, while Lance practically drapes his arm across his roommate’s face to grab a handful of sugar packets, Keith doesn’t ignore it.

“Lance,” he sighs. “Yeah, I see it. It’s _right there_. I was there when you got it done and I almost lost feeling in my fucking fingers for it.”

Unembarrassed, Lance grins. “Does it look good on me, though?”

“I already told you.”

“But that was _yesterday_ ,” he insists, a bit of a playful whine creeping into his tone. “That was soooo long ago, Keith. Tell me I look good _today_.”

Keith quirks an eyebrow, and when Lance begins waving his little planet in front of his nose again, he gently swats it away with a chuckle.

“Fine,” he says. “You look _good_ , Lance.”

* * *

 

**November 2017**

“I’m going to drop out.”

He says it out of the blue one evening during a study session, off-handed and casual — so casual, in fact, that Lance’s immediate reply is just a breezy chuckle.

“You and me both, buddy,” he says from where he sits cross-legged on the floor of their living room, amidst a sea of seemingly endless papers and diagrams, with a highlighter tucked behind one ear, and a pen twirling around in his right hand. “Abandon ship before we get eaten alive by midterms? Sounds like a solid strategy.” 

“Lance,” Keith exhales, blowing a few pieces of his fringe out of his eyes, which are trained, unblinking, up at the ceiling. “I’m going to drop out.”

He says it differently this time. A bit more definitive, maybe. Lance’s pen twirling comes to an abrupt halt, and he finally lifts his gaze out of his study materials.

“Wait — what?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Yeah, but —“ A million things aren’t computing inside his brain, and Keith can practically hear the metaphorical gears turning and twitching and stuttering. “You — drop out? You mean _school?_ ”

“Use your head, Lance,” Keith snaps impatiently. “Obviously I mean school.”

“Me?” A palm flies to Lance’s chest, eyebrows arching all the way to his hairline. “ _Me_ use _my_ head? You’re talking about dropping out of college a semester before we graduate and _you’re_ telling _me_ to use my —“ When the pitch of his voice begins to rise, nearing hysteria, he cuts himself off with an incredulous bark of a laugh, but it does very little to calm him down. “Is this just another one of your _act-first-think-later_ things?”

Sighing, Keith sits up from the couch, arms crossed, jaw tensed. “No, this is a _I-don’t-want-to-be-a-mechanical-engineer-so-why-am-I-wasting-my-time-in-school_ thing.”

“Because school is important, Keith!” Lance exclaims with a thrash of his arms, the highlighter slipping off his ear and into his lap.

“To you, maybe, but it’s not for me,” says Keith. “I’m sick of having my professors trying to decide what’s best for me, pressuring me into applying for internships that I don’t even want.”

“They’re just trying to help you, dude. It’s _literally_ part of their job!”

“Well, I don’t _need_ their help!” He practically shouts over Lance, and he realizes right then and there that any hope for this conversation to go smoothly has just died a sad, inglorious death. Lance is already glaring daggers, and Keith is glaring back, unwilling to budge. “I already have the garage, so I don’t see the point.” 

“Fine, okay, so —“ Lance scrambles gracelessly to his feet, and wastes no time in planting his fists on his hips. “That’s your big, brilliant plan, hotshot? Work at that _shitty_ garage until you grow old and _die?_ ” 

Keith turns his head, nostrils flaring. No matter how fiercely his temper might be simmering, he can’t bear to meet Lance’s gaze when there’s so much hostility there, because he knows that those pretty blue oceans don’t deserve it.

“My plan?” Keith scoffs. “I don’t fucking know, I don’t have one —“

“Of course you don’t!” Lance finally erupts with the intensity of an atomic bomb. Red-faced and wild-eyed, he uses his pen to fling an accusing finger in Keith’s direction. “You _never_ do! You’re always just nosediving straight into one disaster after the next without _thinking_ — like some kind of _psycho!_ You’re sabotaging your own life, Keith!”

He can’t stop himself. Keith leaps off the couch and, in three large strides, stands almost nose to nose in front of his roommate, strain vibrating against his vocal chords, “Right, like _I_ should be taking life advice from _you_ , of all people!”

Keith is close enough now to see how badly that had stung. Lance’s hardened expression twitches, just slight, a mere flicker of vulnerability before he recovers, and shoves his hands into Keith’s chest to wedge some distance between their rigid bodies.

“What the _fuck_ , dude —“

“Just forget it,” Keith snarls, turning on his heel and storming away. He snatches his keys off the table and the first jacket he can reach off the coat rack. “I didn’t ask for your _fucking permission_ to do anything.”

“Yeah, then knock yourself out, buddy!” Lance is hot on his trail, limbs flailing, throat raw and aching from exertion. “Go ahead and self destruct! Throw your future away! See if _I_ care!”

“At least I _have_ a future!”

The last thing Keith sees is Lance, wide-eyed, looking like the wind has been knocked out of his lungs, and then he slams the door in his face.

Keith pivots and hurries down the hallway, fists clenched even as he jabs his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. His heart is pounding against his chest, demanding to be felt, and his head reels with reminders of all the things he shouldn’t have said.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses under his breath when he thinks he’s finally out of earshot.

But Lance had heard.

* * *

 

This isn’t the first time that Keith has stormed out when things get a little too heated between them, and he knows it certainly won’t be the last.

Sometimes he just needs to step away. Sometimes he can’t even look at Lance without going blind with rage. Sometimes he just needs to leave, hop on his motorbike, and disappear from the world. Sometimes he drives for hours. Sometimes he doesn’t even know where he’s going. Sometimes the wind whips so bitterly against his skin that it almost stings, and sometimes that only makes him want to go _faster_.

But he always comes back. He always comes home.

Even when, at times, he feels like he shouldn’t. Because wouldn’t it be easier if he just left for good? Maybe then he won’t have to live in constant fear that, one day, Lance will wake up and finally realize how dangerously _fucked up_ he is — damaged beyond repair. Maybe then Lance will stop getting _hurt_ by his jagged words, his fiery temper, his fractured heart.

Because wouldn’t it be easier if he left before anyone else has the chance to leave _him_?

Keith ponders this as he sits on the curb, in the middle of nowhere, or so it seems, with not even a single streetlamp to illuminate the cracked pavement beneath the soles of his boots. His bike is parked only a few inches away, engine still rumbling softly, idle, and it’s better than the harsh silence of nighttime, Keith thinks, or the endless howl of his troubled mind as it attempts to break him, over and over again.

His phone vibrates against his thigh, stowed away within the depths of his pocket, and, against his better judgement, he pulls it out. The screen glows dim with a barrage of notifications — twenty-two missed calls and seven new voicemails. All from Lance. Keith’s thumb hovers over the screen, ready to swipe the reminders away, but he falters, and lifts the phone to his ear instead.

 _“Look, dude, if you wanna keep playing this whole_ ‘rebel without a cause’ _game, then fine. I don’t give two shits. But just know that —“_

BEEP.

 _“Do you really have to be your usual, dumb, impulsive self_ right now? _I mean, can’t you just suck it up for a few more months and —“_

BEEP.

_“And another thing! Using my deepest, darkest insecurities against me in the middle of a heated argument is, like, the ultimate betrayal! How do you —“_

BEEP.

_“Okay, joke’s over, tough guy. You can come back now —“_

BEEP.

_“Keeeeeeeeeeeeith —“_

BEEP.

_“Seriously, man. It’s been almost two hours. Where the fuck are —“_

BEEP.

By the seventh message, Lance’s voice is a mere murmur. Hollow, ragged, fatigued.

_“Hey, man, listen… I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. If you don’t think college is right for you, then… I dunno. I guess I just overreacted a little bit. So pick up your phone, asshole.”_

BEEP.

Keith lowers his phone, and then lets his head sink down between his hunching shoulders. He suddenly notices that the jacket he’d mindlessly grabbed before he left is not his own, but one of Lance’s blue hoodies. It’s the same soft blue color of his eyes, and smells like a combination of all those dumb skin and hair products he always insists on using.

It smells like _home_.

He rises from the ground, swings a leg over his bike, and takes off down the road.

* * *

 

 

It’s almost three in the morning when Keith sneaks through their creaky front door. Nothing seems to have changed — the faucet is still dripping from the kitchen sink, and a pile of study materials is still scattered about the living room floor. But now there’s Lance, asleep on the couch, cell phone still clutched in his hand, his forehead creased with worry even as he dreams.

Keith silently crosses the room, slipping into his bedroom without so much as a stir from his unconscious roommate. He doesn’t bother changing his clothes, too exhausted to concern himself with something so trivial. So he kicks off his shoes, crawls into bed, and allows the comfortable scent of Lance’s hoodie to lull him to sleep, forcing his chest to rise and fall in a steady, controlled rhythm.

Hours may have passed. Or possibly minutes. Keith isn’t sure. But the next thing he hears is the patter of feet shuffling through his door, the ruffle of bed sheets, and then he feels a warm, unbidden _weight_ pressing up against his back.

Keith’s breath stutters.

Because Lance’s chest is now flush against his shoulder blades. An arm is wound securely around his torso. His quiet exhales are soft and soothing against the nape of his neck. Every muscle in Keith’s body is so tensed that he nearly begins to tremble, but then Lance is holding him tighter, closer, and Keith feels himself releasing, unclenching, _unraveling_ …

Lance is already gone by the time Keith wakes up the following morning, and they don’t discuss that night ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: As always, check out my tumblr (starlightments.tumblr.com) for updates and sneak-peeks! Thanks again, everyone!


	3. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just thought of another resolution for you," he says, seemingly out of nowhere.
> 
> "What's that?"
> 
> Then his shoulders shudder gently, wracked with quiet amusement that bubbles in the back of his throat and dances on his tongue, almost as if he were enjoying some kind of private joke. But his grin endures, if not a bit lopsided, when he meets Keith's eyes and says, "You should smile more often."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This chapter put up a pretty good fight, but alas, I EMERGE VICTORIOUS. Seriously, though. What. I had this whole chapter outlined since forever, and the second I sit down to finish it, everything changes. I know that making edits is part of the process, but this one was honestly such a doozy. It went in a... not totally different direction, but one that I wasn't expecting to take. Not that that's a bad thing! I'm actually very happy with how it all turned out in the end, so I suppose I'm just venting for nothing, lol. I did, however, end up cutting a little scene that wasn't super necessary to the plot (hence why it got axed), but, in my opinion, very fun. I was mildly bummed about that, so maybe I'll release it on my tumblr as a "deleted scene" or something. Hah! Who knows! 
> 
> Also, please note that this chapter contains mature/nsfw content. Read at your own discretion. :)

" _Tonight the sky is burning blue,  
horizon cuts right into you. _  
_You be the moon, I'll be the sea,_  
_and you can shine your light on me..."_

* * *

 

**December 2017**

For someone as lithe and agile as Keith, he really is remarkably terrible at ice skating.

And it's much to his chagrin, and his friends' amusement, that they drag him along to the outdoor rink at the park every year, without fail. It's a holiday tradition, they insist, but it's cruel and unusual punishment for Keith, who wouldn't know holiday spirit even if someone shoved it up his stocking.

But somehow he always finds himself on the ice — because he's nothing if not recklessly stubborn, unwilling to crumble in the wake of his friends' good-natured gibes — circling the perimeter with an iron grip on the hand railing at all times, eyes narrowing down at his rental skates and downright refusing to look up so that he doesn't have to watch Hunk and Shay, hand in hand, gliding by with ease. Or Pidge and Matt as they race each other around, lap after lap.

Or Lance as he skids to a stop beside Keith, spraying tiny shavings of ice around his ankles, a smirk very clear and present in his tone.

"Having fun in the slow lane, mullet?"

Keith doesn't even need to chance a look to know that he's enjoying this moment of superiority a little  _too_  much.

"Fuck off."

"Hey, now," Lance laughs, unruffled. "You should have a little more respect for your extremely generous and dashingly handsome new skating instructor."

"Please, god, no."

"I mean, we do this every year and — no offense, buddy — but I think you're actually getting  _worse_." He examines the way Keith's ankles sway unsteadily beneath his weight, and Keith could smack him right then and there if he didn't fear it would throw off his balance and leave him feeling like even more of an easy target. "And as entertaining as it is to watch you wobble around like a baby deer — because, believe me, it is. It  _really_  is — wouldn't you rather get a few pointers from yours truly?"

"I'd rather hit my head on the ice and black out, thanks."

"Seriously?" says Lance. "You ride a motorcycle. I've watched you almost pull a knife out on someone before. A  _knife_ , Keith. An  _actual_  knife. But a little slipping 'n sliding has you this  _scared?_ "

Oh, he knows what he's doing. Thoroughly cognizant of the sweet-smelling bait he's just tossed into the volatile, impulse-ridden waters of Keith's temper. It floats on the surface, buoying gently, seemingly dormant despite the thrashing that lurks below. Like a vicious predator, Keith is drawn to the enticement, circling the words of a challenge until he breaks through the rippling current —

And he takes the bait.

"I'm not scared," he snaps quickly — too quickly — finally glancing up to counter Lance's pesky smirk with a steely expression of his own.

Lance simply shrugs, "Could've fooled me."

"I'm not  _scared_ , Lance."

"Fine." He's smug. "Then prove it."

"Fine! I will!"

"Fine. So take my hand."

Then Keith is looking down at Lance's upturned palm, staring at the lines and creases as if they were ancient encryptions from another world, mind-boggling and beautiful all the same.

"What?" he croaks.

"Your hand. My hand," Lance wiggles his fingers. "Doing the holding thing."

It's a basic enough request, but somehow it sends Keith's mind reeling into another dimension. A dimension where, apparently, he's unable to conjure up a coherent thought or sentence or do much of anything, really, except continue to stare. So he stares.

And stares.

And  _stares_.

Until finally, "… Um."

The grin that spreads across Lance's lips is entirely indecipherable, which intrigues Keith just as much as it frustrates him. "'Kay, look, I know your little emo heart might combust at even the slightest whiff of compassion, but seriously — quit making this weird, man."

Lance takes matters into his own hands — literally. He reaches out, fingers curling around Keith's, and tugs him away from the safety rail. He drifts backwards toward the center of the rink, toting Keith along at a patient pace.

"Try not to look down at your feet," Lance supplies helpfully. "It's just gonna mess with your balance."

Keith frowns. "What am I  _supposed_  to look at, then?"

"Just look at me. Right up here, right in the eyes."

He doesn't budge, not even an inch, as if the suggestion had withered away in the winter breeze.

"I'm not gonna let you fall, Keith."

_I'm not scared._

"I know that."

_Not at all._

"Then c'mon —" He uses the gentle pads of his fingers to tap the underside of Keith's chin, tilting it up until hesitant eyes are peeking through a thick fan of lashes. "—Up and at 'em."

Keith's stiff neck cranes upward, dark hues easily finding the impossible blue of Lance's gaze, and the sight breaks over him like morning's glow — sweet and golden and heralding the glory of his smile. That smile. That  _stupid_  smile. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and speaks a slew of wordless encouragements that sparkle and sputter through every fissure of Keith's chest in the strangest way.

He wishes he could say that this is the first time he's found himself utterly bewitched by Lance's innate  _Lance-ness_. Or that he could just tally every instance and simply stow them all away within the depths of his subconscious, ready for cobwebs and healthy disregard. Because he's tired — tired of chasing these invisible fault lines around the borders of their friendship. Tired of teetering on the brink of madness as he wonders why a simple touch summons heat to every surface of his skin. Or what it could possibly mean when he catches a glimpse of that blue gaze watching him from the corner of his eye. Or why he sleeps better, dreams easier, when he's burrowed in the warmth of Lance's arms. It's like he's suddenly lost his footing in the middle of an upward climb.

No, Keith has never been scared of falling. Not at all. He's endured far worse than a stomach-churning plummet, a graceless and unbuffered landing.

But, then again, Keith has never had someone willing to catch him before he hits the ground. And, somehow, that terrifies him more than any spiraling free-fall ever could.

"You good?" Lance asks, light still radiating from the blues of his eyes.

 _Define good_ , Keith's mind retorts, but instead he mutters a clipped, "Yeah."

"Perfect," and his grin twitches at the corners in a way that's not entirely innocent. "Then it's time to engage phase two."

"Phase two…?"

"Spread your wings, you beautiful butterfly!"

"Lance, what the fuck —"

Any impending protests are promptly drowned out by Lance's howling cheer as he loosens his grip, gives Keith a mild shove, and sends him adrift on the ice. The distance between them gradually expands, and Lance uses the momentum of the push to glide in one direction, Keith in the other, though, evidently, of no volition of his own. Keith's limbs still scramble for a pair of hands that is no longer there, scooping at the air in front of him as if he were swimming through empty space, almost comically. But Lance doesn't dare laugh — in fact, his beaming expression is the essence of sincerity, his words wholly enthusiastic as he calls out from a few feet away.

"You got this, Keith!" he whoops. "You're  _crushing_  it!"

Keith comes to a painfully slow standstill in the middle of the rink, muscles now frozen in place, for fear that any sudden movement may be his last, and grumbles, "I'm not even moving."

"Yeah, but you're not  _falling_ , either."

_Not that you can see._

"Fine, whatever," he sighs, because for all his stubborn defiance, Keith has come to learn that sometimes it's easier to just allow Lance the imaginary victory that he's concocted inside his head. "You made your point — whatever  _dumb_  point all this is trying to prove, anyway — so can we just drop it now?"

"No can do, my man," Lance shakes his head, arms crossing definitively over his chest as he continues skimming backwards across the ice. "What kind of teacher would I be if I never actually teach you how to do anything?"

Another sigh, unimpressed. "You're not a teacher, Lance."

Then a gasp, scandalized. "Hey — excuse  _you_ , naysayer — but I used to give surfing lessons to ten-year-olds back home every summer! And, honestly? Not much of a difference. Except now it's just, y'know,  _colder_."

"Are you calling me a child?"

"Jeez — touchy, touchy," Lance tosses his hands into the air. "You better lighten up over there, 'cause at this rate, it's gonna be a  _loooong_  afternoon. We're not leaving this rink 'til everyone's calling you Michelle Kwan."

Irritation stings the center of Keith's brow, and, hesitantly, he lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.  _Deep breaths._  "Just… tell me how to move in these fucking skates, if you're so determined to teach me something."

"It's basically the same as walking, except you don't pick up your feet as much."

Keith looks up incredulously. "That's it?  _That's_  your advice?"

"Harder than it sounds. Just wait 'til you put it to practice," he says. "Which brings us to  _phase three_ …"

"I swear to fucking —"

"First one to finish a full lap wins! Loser buys hot chocolate!" And then Lance takes off, scraping thin lines into the ice with the blades of his skates. Long, slender legs alternate their strides, zigzagging toward the perimeter where he cups the sides of his mouth, hollering over his shoulder, "Try to keep up, hotshot!"

Keith flings his arms out to the side, letting them flop back down again to slap against denim-clad thighs in a  _'what the hell am I supposed to do now?'_  gesture, but the sound of Lance's laughter disappears as he whips around the first curve of the circular rink.

Great. Fantastic. Literally stranded on the ice.

But that tantalizing bait still floats on the surface of the current, subtle and half-bitten, but still there. He can already hear the endless drone of Lance's gloating if he decides to surrender now, in the face of blatant competition, and it ignites the forefront of his mind with a dancing, self-sufficient flame.  _It's basically the same as walking_ , Keith recalls,  _except you don't pick up your feet as much_. It's vague advice, at best — no doubt intended to leave Keith with even more of a disadvantage — but it's the closest thing he's gotten to instruction all day, so, curiously, he drags his right foot forward. He pushes off with the left, and begins to glide.

Maybe it's not the most graceful sight, but at least he isn't helplessly stuck in the middle of the rink anymore. With newfound confidence, Keith risks another slow stride of his foot, and his speed picks up, knees bent, arms at the ready. A cool breeze pricks at his skin, dishevels his hair. It's nothing like the whipping wind of a ride on his motorbike, he thinks, but there's a similar tingling in his veins, a reminiscent thrill bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He craves that rush, and so he pushes off again.

Ankles wobble, balance falters, but he recovers with a flail of his arms.  _Close one_.

Shay and Hunk whiz by, slowing down just enough to offer a warm smile and a thumbs-up, respectively, as they pass. Keith just huffs a labored breath. Up ahead, he can spot Lance, swiveling and swerving — showing off, no doubt. Keith's eyes narrow, focus fixating, when Pidge and Matt pull up next to him, flanking either side.

"Try keeping your feet a little farther apart," Pidge suggests, motioning down at Keith's skates that are nearly brushing against one another.

"Yeah, and don't let your chest fall too forward," Matt adds, "unless you wanna face-plant on the ice."

Keith straightens up, shuffles his feet to wedge a little more space between them, and says, "Didn't know you two were such skating experts."

"Oh, we're not," Pidge smirks. "We just  _really_  wanna see Lance's face when you beat him."

And with that, the siblings thrust their palms into Keith's shoulder blades, sending him careening across the ice with a string of startled expletives fumbling off his lips.

There's that thrill — that arousing adrenaline that he's been missing — as he zips past fellow skaters, blurring into obscurity out of the corner of his eyes. Keith can feel the ice crushing beneath the force of his blades, and his muscles as they tense, keeping him upright. He's already gaining on Lance, but, suddenly, the adrenaline drains from his veins, as does the color from his face, because there's one significant problem — nobody taught him how to  _stop_.

Lance, blissfully unaware, comes to a halt when he reaches their imaginary finish line, hands thrown up over his head in victory as Keith hurtles closer and closer and  _closer_ …

"Aw, yeah! Lancey-Lance takes home the gold —  _oof!"_

And then they both hit the ice.

* * *

 

Later, when Keith finally finds himself back on solid, unfrozen ground, he sits on a nearby park bench, wrenching his feet out of his skates with haste. He rolls his throbbing ankles around a few times, surprised to see them still intact, even after the unintentionally rough landing earlier.

"This'll help."

He looks up, squinting into the sun's glare, to notice Lance. He's smiling, despite an impressive gash swelling his bottom lip, and holding two steaming cardboard cups, one of which is extended out to Keith.

Dark eyes travel from the cup to a blue gaze. "What's this?"

"The most delicious apple cider to ever rock your world," says Lance.

"For me?"

"No, Keith, it's for the invisible sasquatch sitting next to you," Lance deadpans. He waits a beat, watching as Keith slowly blinks his owlish eyes, and then snorts, "Yes, it's for you! I mean, if you  _want_  it. I know you're not a big hot chocolate person — which I still think is an affront to humanity — but luckily I'm good at improvising."

Keith hides his sheepishness behind a small frown, and takes the offered cup. "I thought the loser was supposed to buy the drinks."

"Uh, you seen my busted lip lately?" Lance gently jabs his index finger against the engorged, purpling skin. "That's the mark of a loser if I've ever seen one."

"Right," Keith scoffs. "Just give it a few weeks. I'm sure I'll catch you  _bragging_  about your new battle wound after it heals."

"Take that back. I'm too pretty to scar."

Keith breathes a laugh against the rim of his cider as Lance takes the seat beside him on the bench, sipping from his own warm drink and wincing when he does so. Whether it's from the scorching temperature or the fresh tear in his lip, Keith isn't sure. They sit in mutual, comfortable silence, bare hands clasped around their heated cups, watching the world pass them by. There are still some skaters out on the rink, and children laughing as they roll around in the snow-covered grass, and couples strolling down the sidewalks, in love, hand-in-hand.

"Y'know," says Lance, his gaze idly following a lady with a bright-colored scarf. "I think you left something out on the rink."

"My dignity?" Keith guesses.

Lance barks in amusement. "Nope. I mean,  _kinda_. But also no."

Before Keith can prod him for an answer, he feels the warm press of Lance's hand against his own, fingers lacing together quite subtly, and Keith doesn't move. If he tightens his grasp, will it scare him away? If he slowly drags his thumb along Lance's knuckles, will he wake with a start, finding that it's all just a skating-injury-induced fantasy? Keith takes the risk. He squeezes his hand. Lance squeezes back.

Limbs aching, Keith lifts his free hand up to his mouth, takes a sip of his world-rocking apple cider, and thinks that maybe — just maybe — not all holiday traditions have to be so bad.

* * *

 

**January 2018**

It's nearly three in the morning, and they're sitting outside on the street curb, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for their Uber to come pick them up. The night is deadly quiet, save for what little remains of the once-riotous New Years party at the campus fraternity house. Chatter and the distant croon of  _Auld Lang Syne_  still spills out from the partially cracked windows behind them.

A thin trail of smoke slips past Keith's lips, drifting up and away into the darkness, cigarette perched lazily between two fingers. Lance, seemingly too exhausted to comment —  _again_  — about how Keith has regressed into an old, nasty habit, stares aimlessly at his feet at the ends of his outstretched legs. A paper noisemaker hangs by a string around his neck like a necklace, and there's a pair of plastic sunglasses — with a big, glittery  _'2018'_  where the lenses should be — resting crooked atop his head.

"Name one of your new years resolutions. Ready?  _Go_."

Keith lifts an eyebrow.

"You're really bad at this game," Lance sighs. "And I made the instructions so  _easy_ , too."

"Do you  _really_  make resolutions for the new year?"

"Of course I do. Everyone does." When Keith makes a face, it prompts Lance to ask, "What, you don't?"

He shrugs. "It feels kind of pointless. If I want to do something, I'll just do it. I shouldn't have to wait for a whole 'nother year to roll around to make it happen."

"Spoken like a true rebel of society."

Keith's shoulders heave another shrug as he steals a quick drag from his cigarette. Lance taps his restless feet against the pavement, lips puckered in a way that suggests he isn't fully satisfied with Keith's lack of an answer.

"Okay, but what if you  _had_  to make one?" he tries again. "Like I'm talking  _gun-to-the-head_  level seriousness here, dude. What would it be?"

Keith takes one look at Lance's insistent stare, shrouded by nighttime and the dim glimmer of moonlight, and mutters an unenthused, "I don't know."

His lower lip juts out into a pout. "Just one teeny little resolution."

"I don't  _know_."

"Jeez,  _fine_ ," Lance groans, leaning back onto his palms, brow furrowing in thought, "then I'll just make one  _for_  you."

"That's not how it's supposed to work, Lance…"

"You should quit smoking." He tosses a meaningful, unabashed glare in the direction of Keith's cigarette, still hanging casually from his fingers. Smoke billows out from Keith's nostrils, which are considerably flared in annoyance, and before he can plead his case, Lance adds, "—for real this time."

He pleads his case, anyway, scoffing defensively. "It hasn't gotten  _that_  bad."

"Uh-huh, sure," Lance sneers. "Tell that to  _lung cancer_  when you're in the hospital for hacking up blood."

Nose scrunching, Keith allows his half-finished cigarette to fall off his fingers, dying as soon as it hits the small pile of gray slush gathered by the curb. But he keeps his gaze trained on the dwindling fumes for a while, hoping to avoid Lance's expression from turning too smug. "Are you done?" Keith snaps.

"Nope," says Lance, undeterred, and popping the 'p'. "I just so happen to have another resolution for you."

"Don't —"

"You should call your dad."

There's an aching, immutable pause in time that lingers over their heads like a storm cloud, louder than the stillness of night, and chillier than the brisk winter air. And when Keith finally lifts his hanging head enough to meet Lance's stare again, there is not even a minor semblance of the good-natured mischief that had painted his eyes with a pretty pearlescent gleam like before. Instead, they're stiff, glazed over with steel; so hardened that Keith fears the blues of his eyes may shatter and crack with every deliberate blink. He hates the way it looks — steel doesn't belong in an ocean — but, even more so, he hates the way it rubs rough and raw at his unraveling nerves until Keith can barely feel the tremble of his hands as they curl tightly into fists.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, a coarse, chuffing sound against the back of his teeth. "What the hell is  _wrong_  with you?"

"Me?" Lance says, unafraid, with a deep crease wrinkling the center of his forehead. " _You're_  the one who can't even pick up the phone to talk to his own father. The wedding invitation is  _still_  hanging on the fridge, y'know. It's been there for, like, months, and you haven't even RSVP'd yet!"

"Yeah, because I don't wanna go."

"He's your  _dad_ , Keith."

"Then he should try acting like it for once!"

Time resumes it's steady, upward climb. It's painfully obvious as Keith feels every second, every minute tick by in the time span of a heartbeat, throbbing hard against his chest. And all the while, he watches Lance's steel dissolve into flesh, his lips forming around words that his mind won't let him say. But Keith wishes he'd say something,  _anything_ , to drown out his outburst as it echoes inside his skull.

"Hey."

It's spoken in such a low, hushed octave that Keith might not've noticed it had Lance not brought a hand down upon his shoulder.

"Look, I get that you're mad. I mean, your old man's not exactly in the running for Parent of the Year or anything, but —" His lungs inflate with a lagging breath, slow and heavy. " —I  _really_  think you'll regret it one day if you don't go."

Keith knows that Lance lost his father at a young age, and that he'd likely do anything to see him again, or, at the very least, have one final phone call. And then there's Keith, blatantly ignoring a wedding invitation that holds the promise of reunion, of reconciliation. He tries not to sound as guilty as he feels.

But the best he can do is a small murmur of, "It's just gonna be really weird — and really awkward."

"Then I'll go with you," Lance says without hesitation, and the abruptness of it makes Keith tilt his head in bewilderment, and so Lance continues, "C'mon, lemme be your plus one. Can't promise I'll make it any less weird or awkward, but at least I know we'll have fun. I love weddings! We'll get all dressed up, stuff our faces with cake, and I'll even show you how to do the Cupid Shuffle."

"Lance," Keith sighs, head shaking, "you don't have to do that."

"Yeah, but I  _want_  to." The hand that still rests on Keith's shoulder journeys upward to pluck a stray piece of golden confetti from his dark mane, leftover from the celebration of a new year. "You're crazy if you think I'm gonna let you go through something like that  _alone_ , Kogane."

He feels like he's on the ice again, falling, falling,  _falling_ …

"I'll think about it," Keith says, and there's a smile alight on his lips and eyes and heart. Lance's smile is much the same, and it hovers delicately in what little space exists between their moonlit faces.

"I just thought of another resolution for you," he says, seemingly out of nowhere.

"What's that?"

Then his shoulders shudder gently, wracked with quiet amusement that bubbles in the back of his throat and dances on his tongue, almost as if he were enjoying some kind of private joke. But his grin endures, if not a bit lopsided, when he meets Keith's eyes and says, "You should smile more often."

Keith loses himself somewhere in the breath of those words. Somehow they've leaned in close enough so that he can actually feel it upon his warmed cheeks, like a summer breeze in the dead of winter. For half a heartbeat, Keith thinks he catches Lance's gaze flitting to his mouth, studying the bow of his lips. But then another heartbeat passes. And another, and  _another_. A symphony of stuttering pulses that brings Keith nearer, until nothing exists between their lips but the taste of cheap champagne.

It's a feather-light touch, just the briefest of kisses, soft and unsure, and Keith's eyes blink to attention when he feels Lance jerk away, flinching as if burned by a flame. Bright car headlights approach from afar, rolling to a stop in front of them, but Keith barely notices. He watches as Lance's pupils shrink into the blues of his eyes, thinking how he feels very much the same, thinking how he's  _finally_  done it.

He's  _finally_  scared off the one person who'd been dumb enough to stay.

The car ride home is slow and agonizing. Lance sits in the passenger seat, making polite smalltalk with their driver. Keith sits in the back, head lolling against the leather upholstery, staring out the window, but seeing nothing. They don't say a word to each other.

Silence follows them into their apartment, and Keith makes a hasty beeline to his bedroom, barely chucking off his jacket before Lance seizes his wrist.

"I —" he tries to say, but then Lance is pulling him in, lips colliding, and a palm pressing firm against the side of his face.

One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats,  _four_ …

"Sorry," Lance exhales when they part, the pad of his thumb grazing the peak of Keith's cheekbone. "You just caught me off guard before."

Keith swallows dry, talks soft, "S'okay."

And then Lance turns, hurrying into his bedroom, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

 

**February 2018**

"Lance —"

A million and one questions threaten to blossom from Keith's trembling lips, the very same ones that have been spinning 'round and 'round inside his mind for the past few days, weeks — months, even.

_What are we doing?_

_What does this mean?_

_How did we get here?_

But they all promptly slither back from whence they came, coiling around his throat, nearly choking him, when Lance looks up from where he's crouched between Keith's thighs, cheeks hollowed around his length, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his erection, with hooded eyes so deep they could drown him, and Keith's skull drops back against the headrest with a resounding thud.

Well,  _fuck_. How  _did_  they get here?

Here being the backseat of Lance's shoddy sedan, windows slightly fogged, jackets discarded, and pants unzipped. But then there's also  _here_  — a more nondescript and metaphysical state of being, where hand-holding and timid kisses are a thing of the past, and inexplicable impulses are welcomed with restless hands and hungry lips. Keith can confidently say that he's never been  _here_  before, which only makes his quest for clarity all the more strenuous. Because friends can hold hands. They can even, on occasion, share a kiss or two. But Keith is fairly certain that friends don't make spontaneous detours to vacant parking lots late at night, or straddle each other's laps and claim each other's lips with such fervor that they're forced to relocate to the much more spacious backseat, or allow their hands to wander southward over strained denim until they're gasping against sweat-slick skin, with prosodic murmurs of  _'oh, yes, god, please'_.

On second thought, maybe the nondescript and metaphysical  _here_  isn't such a bad place to be, after all.

Because the third  _here_  — the more concrete and visceral  _here_  — is too delicate for someone as wild as Keith. He'll end up snagging the tattered edges, pulling and jerking until he rips it raw, like a bone-deep wound. Inevitably, he'll push and push until Lance can't reach for him anymore, and then, after all these years, he'll finally leave for good. But a door can't be closed if nobody even dares to open it.

And so Keith will barricade that door in exchange for staying here, like this, nondescript and metaphysical, with Lance. Even if it means untangling their fingers whenever their friends walk back into the room. Or stealing a kiss only under the cover of night, when lights are dim and the heart is lonely.

"Lance…"

Or redirecting his gaze when he sees Lance across the room at a party, whispering into a pretty girl's ear, bodies almost flush together.

" — _Lance_."

Or ignoring the way it makes his skin crawl, his blood simmer, his muscles clench until they're tight and numb and  _shaking_ …

"Lance — 'm gonna —"

Keith's fingers bury themselves in Lance's hair as Lance works him faster, his tongue bold and wet as it swirls around the head, and it's not long before Keith's heart is pounding warnings against his chest, skin fevered all the way up to his hairline, and he spills into Lance's mouth, breath punching out of his lungs with a heave. As Keith stares into the star-speckled blackness behind his eyelids, Lance pulls away with a muted pop, lips swollen red and slick with spit.

And then Keith, still mildly dazed and disoriented, is dragging Lance up by the front of his shirt, pinning him down against the seat, and slipping his hand past the waistband of Lance's boxers.

Because friends, after all, can return favors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Thank you so much for the supportive response to this story, everyone! Just a reminder that you can always come find me on tumblr (starlightments.tumblr.com), especially if you want fic updates and sneak-previews!


	4. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, Keith?"
> 
> He turns to look. "Yeah?"
> 
> Lance is sitting up now, upper body propped by his elbows, lips fumbling around soft-spoken words. "Y'know, you could just… stay here," and when Keith doesn't respond immediately, Lance must break into some kind of panic because he tacks on a hasty, "Or whatever. If you want. I mean, since you're already here."
> 
> It's silly rationale, Keith knows. His bedroom is barely ten feet away down the hall, but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet with how glossy and hopeful Lance's eyes look staring back at him in the dimly lit room. And how can Keith just walk away from that?
> 
> How can he just walk away from him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Grab your snacks and drinks, folks, because we got ourselves a long one. So long, in fact, that I had to break up this chapter into two. Which means that - fun fact - this was supposed to be the final chapter, but now there's one more coming your way after this!
> 
> Again, this chapter contains mature/nsfw content. Fair warning. :)

_"And I will follow you no matter where you run._  
_I'm holding all the cards,_  
_but there's only one..._  
_One heart missing..."_

* * *

 

**March 2018**

"Ahh —  _Keith_ …"

 _That_  tone, Keith decides, should be  _very_  much illegal. It's somehow both silken and ragged at the same time, and makes even the banality of his own name sound something like poetry as it's breathed hotly against the nape of his neck, warming down the length of his spine like a spider's crawl.

Then again, Lance could be reciting the alphabet right now, for all he cares, and he's still fairly certain it would be the end of him. But thank god it's not. Because then Lance's chest presses firmer against Keith's back, and the roll of his hips is so sinuous and heavy that Keith has to clamp a hand over his mouth, smothering the instinctive gust of Lance's name, dashing any illusion of intimacy.

Because despite how it feels, he knows that these recurring nights of tangled sheets and mingled breaths and wandering hands aren't anything more than a means to an end. A casual affair.  _Just friends_.

They  _can't_  be anything more than that.

And so, instead, Keith sucks in a sharp swill of air, and speaks something far less poetic through the cracks of his fingers. "That as fast as you can go?"

Another puff of air hits the back of Keith's neck, a breathy chuckle. "So  _impatient_."

"So  _slow_."

A strong, tanned arm snakes around Keith's middle, and palms at his leaking erection until Keith is squeezing his eyes shut, breath thinning inside his throat and limbs trembling with anticipation. Then Lance's fingers curl around him, fist pumping, wrist rolling with the upswing to match the movement of his protracted thrusts. Keith clips a coarse moan hastily between his teeth, and he's certain he'd feel more self-conscious about the noise if not for the rhythmic creaking of Lance's bed beneath their undulating bodies to conceal it.

"You close?" Lance pants against the shell of his ear.

Keith's head hangs low between his shoulders, sweat dappling along his forehead, fingers digging into the rumpled bed sheets. He's a fool to think that Lance doesn't notice, doesn't  _feel_  the way that he's falling to pieces under his touch — or the way he's wholeheartedly torn between bucking forward into the snug fit of Lance's hand or grinding back against his hips, friction too good, blazing.

"Now who's impatient?" Keith manages to mutter.

"Just shut up and come already."

"Make me —  _ahh_ …"

The beginning of a challenge dies by the hand of Keith's lapse in self-control. Or the quickened cadence of Lance's  _very_  talented hips. Probably both. Regardless, he comes in Lance's hand, brain fogging and tension releasing to the low purr of " _Yeah_ , like that…" burning against his skin. Oh, if only Keith could see Lance's face in this moment, but he can still  _imagine_  that little crease in the center of his brow, and the flush of his lightly freckled cheeks as his hips stutter, spurring him into a few impulsive, carnal thrusts before he's dissolving, gasping, spilling into the warmth of Keith's ass.

Keith finally allows his muscles to collapse as Lance slowly pulls out, removing the condom and tossing it into the metal wastebasket by his nightstand, and then rolls onto his back to stare blindly at the dark ceiling.

It's a little too cold without the weight of Lance's body bearing down, holding him,  _enveloping him_ , but Keith tries not to think about that.

"Fuck," he hears Lance breathe. "It's almost two-thirty."

Head turning, Keith glances at the digital clock on the nightstand, its blaring red numbers reading two-twenty-six. "Yeah," he says.

"Didn't even realize it was that late," he flops an arm over his face, and adds, "Man, time flies when you're getting laid, huh?"

Keith snorts, half amused. "Guess so. You got class in the morning?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure Iverson'll flunk me on the spot if he catches me dozing off during lecture again," Lance grumbles. "Work tomorrow?"

"Not 'til noon."

" _Ugh_. Lucky."

And that's it. That's that. They're back to their regularly scheduled programming, as easy and comfortable as if Keith had wandered into Lance's room to ask to borrow a phone charger. As if he'd struck up an innocent conversation about the weather. As if Lance  _hadn't_  been fucking him senseless just moments before.

"Oh, hey, mind if I swing by the garage sometime tomorrow?" Lance asks.

"Blue giving you trouble again?"

Just the thought of Lance's near-archaic car summons unsolicited memories of all the sinful things they've done in that well-worn backseat together. All the sinful things he  _wants_  to do.

"Nothin' a little tender loving care can't fix," says Lance.

"Well, I'm off at five."

"I'll be there. I mean, assuming I don't completely crash the second I get home," and there's a smile in Lance's voice as he amends, "Worth it, though.  _Totally_  worth it."

Keith snorts again. "Thanks for clarifying."

"Anytime, babe."

The cheeky nickname makes him huff, roll his eyes, and move to sit at the edge of the bed. He reaches for the small cloth left by the bed frame to clean himself up. Then he bends over to fish around for his sweatpants on the floor, slipping one leg in, then the other, readying himself to leave. Their usual routine. But just as Keith gets to his feet, before he can mutter a quick goodnight, he's halted by an utterance of something quiet, something almost  _vulnerable_ , voiced into the silence.

"Hey, Keith?"

He turns to look. "Yeah?"

Lance is sitting up now, upper body propped by his elbows, lips fumbling around soft-spoken words. "Y'know, you could just… stay here," and when Keith doesn't respond immediately, Lance must break into some kind of panic because he tacks on a hasty, "Or whatever. If you  _want_. I mean, since you're already here."

It's silly rationale, Keith knows. His bedroom is barely ten feet away down the hall, but it might as well have been on the other side of the planet with how glossy and hopeful Lance's eyes look staring back at him in the dimly lit room. And how can Keith just walk away from that?

How can he just walk away from  _him?_

"Okay," says Keith.

"You —" Lance blinks. "—Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

" _Okay_ ," Lance looks a bit startled, as if he hadn't been anticipating this outcome, and, for some reason, Keith finds it annoyingly endearing. He shimmies himself under the sheets, and scoots over to offer more room for another body. " _Cool_. So just, uh… y'know, make yourself comfortable."

Keith stares at his empty side of the bed, gaze intense, brow furrowing, as if he doesn't know what to do with it. And, truthfully, part of him really  _doesn't_  know. He's used to the retreat. The silent getaway. The escape into the safety of his own room where he's free to bury his face into his pillow, and drive himself crazy with all the  _what-if's_  and  _could-be's_  of their complicated relationship until his mind takes pity on him, and lets him drift to sleep.

But  _this_ …

This is  _new_.

He remembers that one night in the fall, when he and Lance had yelled their throats raw, and Keith didn't return to the apartment for two agonizing hours. He remembers slumping into his bed, tired and aching. He remembers the sound of shuffling feet outside his bedroom door. He remembers a pair of arms looping around his torso, and a heartbeat hammering up against his back. He remembers an empty bed the next morning. He remembers Lance's hazy grin greeting him in the kitchen, as if nothing had happened, as if it'd all been a dream.

But this is no dream, and now nothing, not even the guise of unconsciousness, can save Keith from feeling so utterly and wantonly  _nervous_. He lowers himself onto the mattress, slips under the covers, and lays on his back, limbs clinging to his sides, straight and stock-still. When the sound of ruffling sheets finally subsides, Lance blows air from his tightly pressed lips, until he bursts into a fit of sputtering laughter.

"What?" Keith demands tartly.

"Dude, I said make yourself comfortable, not  _play_   _dead_ ," he chortles, and prods a playful finger into Keith's exposed flank. "Seriously — could you  _be_  more stiff right now?"

"I'm just  _laying down_ ," Keith defends, twisting to avoid Lance's jab and, not-so-coincidentally, hide a flushed face. "What'd you  _expect_  me to do?"

"I dunno," says Lance. "Maybe — I mean, you could just…"

The bed sheets ruffle again as Lance shifts, a hand moving slow, tentative, to reach for Keith's hip. He brings him in, rolling him onto his side so that they're close — almost nose to nose — so close that Keith fears he'll be able to hear the snag in his inhale, the stammer of his pulse. But even if he does hear, Lance only smiles, as gentle as the palm that settles in the dip of Keith's waistline.

Blue eyes disappear behind a flutter of lashes as he murmurs, "This is kinda nice… right?"

His breath is warm and real against Keith's heated cheeks, tickling his skin like the sunset kisses the horizon, and  _yeah_.

_Yeah, this is kinda nice._

* * *

**April 2018**

Keith stands in the middle of the hotel room bathroom, scowling at his reflection in the mirror.

"C'mon, man, we're gonna be late," Lance's voice calls, muffled and impatient, from the other side of the door.

He's right, but Keith ignores him, much too focused on the sharp lines of his suit jacket, the crisp whiteness of his shirt collar, the sheen of his dress shoes. God, he hates it. He hates it all.

"What are you even  _doing_  in there? Are you finally chopping off the mullet? Pics or it didn't happen, Keith.  _Pics or it didn't happen!_ "

Again, ignored. Keith wrenches his red tie loose, and yanks the top two buttons of his stupid shirt open, roughly tugging the fabric away from his neck because,  _god-fucking-dammit_ , it's suddenly scorching hot. Has it always been this hot?

"Okay, you officially can't get pissed at me for hogging the bathroom anymore, 'cause this is just  _ridiculous_  —"

Lance wiggles the doorknob, and then pokes his head into the room. He makes eye contact with Keith's reflection, holding his unblinking gaze in the mirror for a muted moment, eyebrow lifting as he finally says, "You know that your tie is crooked, right?"

"Fuuuuuck!" Keith growls, hands dragging through his unkempt hair as he pivots around to take a seat on the edge of the bathtub.

" _Sheesh_ , calm down, drama queen," Lance gripes, stepping fully into the room. "I can fix it in, like, two seconds."

"I don't care about the fucking tie, Lance!"

His outburst cuts through the room like a knife, but Lance stands there, unmoving and unscathed, watching as Keith hunches over himself, elbows dropping onto his knees, face in his palms. If Keith had any semblance of desire to glance up right then, he'd find nothing but a hushed understanding in Lance's half-mast eyes. Sympathy. Or maybe pity. Keith really hopes it's not the latter.

"You're nervous, huh?" Lance ventures calmly.

"No."

"Excited?"

"Not really."

"Well, you gotta be feeling  _something_. I mean, your dad's getting married." The only sign that Keith is still sentient is the way his back rises and falls with every labored breath. Lance folds his arms neatly over his chest, a hip leaning against the edge of the porcelain countertop as he asks, "When's the last time you even saw him in person?"

The fact that Keith has to pause and rack his brain for as long as he does is a very telling sign. "Four years ago?" he guesses. "It was my high school graduation. He showed up late to the ceremony, drank too much at the reception, and ended up hitting on the vice principal in front of her husband."

Lance winces. "Yikes."

" _Yeah_."

"'Kay, well…" he exhales a long, careful sigh, scuffing the toe of his polished shoe against the tile floor in thought. "Maybe we should have a safe word," and when a small sliver of Keith's eye peeks out curiously from behind his hand, Lance crouches in front of him, and continues, "Yeah, y'know, like — in case it's too much and you just wanna get outta there for a little bit. Clear your head, take a lap, abort the mission, whatever. Something like…  _toothpaste_."

"Toothpaste?"

"I dunno," Lance shrugs, gesturing vaguely to where their various toiletries are strewn around the sink. "It's the first thing I saw."

Keith's rigid shoulders twitch once. Then again. And again, and again, until he's shuddering all over, and Lance doesn't even realize that he's laughing until he hears an indelicate snicker wheezing past his lips.

"Ah- _ha_ , gotcha," he says, gently taking Keith's wrists, and attempting to tear them away from his face to reveal the grin that he knows is terrorizing his frown. And when he catches a fleeting glimpse of it, he barks victoriously, " _There's_  that cheese, buddy!"

Through his heaving breaths, Keith shoves him away with a non-vicious snort of, "Idiot."

And, for the first time all day, he thinks that maybe everything will be alright.

* * *

Everything is  _not_  alright.

At least, that's what Keith tells himself as he sulks in the corner of the banquet hall, swallowing down his third glass of wine, watching the room spin by with indistinguishable faces.

The wedding ceremony itself had been fine. As predicted, Keith and Lance were the last guests to arrive, and so they quietly slipped into the back row of seats just seconds before the procession began marching down the aisle. And Keith felt like running away only once, when he could've sworn that he made direct eye contact with his father standing at the front of the room, but Lance's hand grazing small, soothing circles around his knee kept him anchored to his chair.

But the hardest part was seeing his father's smile. His beaming, glossy-eyed expression as Krolia — an attractive woman with dark skin and an edgy undercut — met him at the altar. He looked so unlike the careless, irresponsible, crude man that Keith remembers from all the distantly repressed memories of his childhood. This man — the one standing so tall and proud as he pronounces his unwavering devotion — is stronger. He is brighter. He is happier.

Happier with his new life. The one  _without_  Keith.

And it hurts more than he expected it to.

At the reception, after his first glass of wine, Keith watches as his father and Krolia share their first dance. He listens as guests make toasts and speeches, wishing the new couple everlasting joy, and Keith isn't mentioned even once. After his second glass of wine, Keith starts wondering why he's even here. Was the invitation sent out of guilt? Obligation? And now, third glass in hand, he just wants to go home.

"Excuse me, handsome stranger —"

Keith turns to find Lance, grinning suavely, and an arm outstretched. His suit jacket has long since been discarded somewhere, exposing a fitted vest, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, and,  _damn_ , he looks good.

" —Are you religious?" Lance purrs. "'Cause I think dancing with me will be the answer to all your prayers."

"Toothpaste."

Lance's arm flops uselessly to his side, expression deflating. "Oh, ha-ha,  _hilarious_. A real comedian over here, ladies and gentlemen," he deadpans, and then quickly transitions into, "But for real, though — c'mon, dance with me."

Keith makes a face. "I don't dance."

" _Sure_. Says the guy who's been tossing back wine like a middle-aged housewife all night," Lance snarks. "I know you got some boozy moves in there somewhere, Kogane."

The music from the live band suddenly dissolves into something slow and melodic, so painfully languid that it tugs at Keith's heartstrings without him even realizing it. The piano trills, the strings cry, and a beautifully husky female voice croons into the microphone.

" _Look at me…  
__I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree.  
__And I feel like I'm clinging to a cloud,  
__I can't understand,  
__I get misty… just holding your hand…"_

Lance casts a glance over his shoulder toward the dwindling dance floor, where solo dancers have seemed to scatter, making room for slow-moving couples to come together, and he looks back at Keith with a smirk. "That's our cue, y'know."

Keith shuffles uncomfortably. "I still don't know how to —"

"It's easy," Lance insists, barely allowing Keith enough time to ditch his wine glass before he's seizing his wrist. "All you have to do is follow my lead."

"But —"

"Just get your ass on the dance floor, dude!"

And he does, thanks to Lance's firm tug as he totes him toward the middle of the floor, and Keith is maybe too loosened by the wine to resist. He simply fumbles along, feet awkwardly scuffling to a halt when Lance twirls around to face him with a blinding grin. Fingers lace in one hand, and he moves the other to his shoulder, and then Lance is pulling him closer by the small of his back. There are only a few graceless missteps as Keith adjusts to the footing, so foreign and strange to him, but then he does as he's told — he follows Lance's lead — and, soon enough, they're swaying gently, pressing close, bodies in unison.

"See?" says Lance. "You're a natural."

"We're literally just moving around in a circle."

"Hey, you gotta start somewhere," he chuckles. "Maybe next time we'll be experienced enough to tackle the whole  _not_  stepping on my feet thing."

"Next time?" The wording has Keith quirking a brow. "Are there gonna be more wedding invitations from estranged parents that I don't know about?"

Lance chuckles again, but it's a short, dismissive sound. "Well, no, but —  _y'know_."

It's an oddly vague response, Keith thinks, and it triggers something sour deep within his gut that he can't quite pinpoint. He pauses for a beat or two, allowing the music to hum in the background, allowing Lance the time to elaborate, but he never does. He just keeps swaying, slow and unbothered.

And so Keith says, perhaps a bit too abruptly, "No, I  _don't_  know."

"I —" Lance's grin twitches around the edges, preparing to sag. "I just mean that maybe — I mean, I  _hope_  — that maybe we'll get the chance to do stuff like this together again — like in the future."

"The future?"

" _Our_  future," and when Keith's eyes start to narrow, Lance backtracks, "Wait —  _shit_  — that came out weird."

" _What_  came out weird?"

"I, uh…"

Keith watches as Lance averts his gaze. First he glances to the side, then up at the ceiling, then down at their shuffling feet — literally anywhere that  _isn't_  Keith's intense stare — and then there it is again. That sour, gut-deep churning that swells as powerfully as the music, and that sky-rocketing temperature that has Keith almost sweating through his suit. He suddenly kind of regrets all the wine.

"'Kay, listen," Lance's eyes finally return, but they're different somehow. Like a rippling tide instead of a tranquil harbor. Keith frowns. "This is probably the worst timing ever, with everything you're going through, and maybe I'm just getting all caught up in everything — y'know, wedding fever or whatever — but…"

 _Definitely_  regrets the wine. At some point, they stop swaying, but the room continues to spin at a dizzying pace. Keith digs his fingers into Lance's shoulder, as if it's the only thing keeping him upright, and,  _fuck_ , if someone doesn't crank up the air conditioning soon, then he just might boil in his own blood.

"Lance…"

"I've just been thinking lately —  _feeling_  lately that…" His adam's apple bobs as he swallows around something thick and dense wedged inside his throat. "I mean, everything that's been going on between us just makes me kinda realize that…"

No, no, no, no… shit, shit, shit,  _shit_ …

"What are you —"

"— I really like you, Keith. Like a  _stupid_  amount of like. And it took me a while to figure it out 'cause, y'know,  _fuck_ , it was kinda confusing there for a little bit, but —"

"Lance —  _don't_  —" It's a warning.

"— It all just sorta  _clicked_  for me, and now you're all I think about, all I dream about, and sometimes it honestly feels like I'm dying — but like, in a  _good_  way, though — like —" He leads Keith's hand to his chest, and holds it tight against the spot where his heart pounds an erratic rhythm. "— that's all  _you_."

The music screams, the ground shifts, the entire universe falls out of orbit all at once because —  _fuck_  — he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be listening to these earnest words. He shouldn't be lost at sea in those blue eyes. He shouldn't be standing here, counting the pulses of Lance's heart when he knows how easily he could crush it with a bare hand.

Lance will be happier without him. Just like his father.

But all he can muster is another strangled growl of, " _Lance_."

"And I don't feel lost when I'm with you, or useless, or scared. It's like — I just feel —" Lance breathes, air collapsing out of his lungs. "— _god_ , I just really wanna kiss you right now… Can I kiss you —"

"Lance, shut up."

He can already feel it starting to crumble.

Lance pauses, breathes again, and, quietly, "Sorry for just blurting it out like that, I —"

"I  _said_  shut up," Keith snaps. "Why — Why are you telling me this?"

"Do you not —" The hand against his chest starts to slip away, and Keith stifles the urge to chase after it. "—feel the same way?"

Keith doesn't know what to do, so he does the only thing he knows how. He pushes him away. He shuts him out.

"I…"

"'Cause then what the hell have we been  _doing_  the past few months?"

He's upset. He's hurt. And Keith hates himself for being the cause of it, for being too impulsive, for postponing the inevitable. For falling too hard, for wanting too much, for being the way he is. Reckless. Destructive.  _Broken_.

"I…" His head hangs low, boneless, unable to bring himself to meet Lance's gaze. "I don't know."

"How do you  _not know?_  You haven't — been  _thinking_  about it? You haven't even thought about it, like,  _once?"_

Keith tries to focus on the band, and their swelling melody, so that he doesn't have to listen to the hitch in Lance's throat, or the labor of his breaths, or the tremor in his voice that threatens to flood right out of his blue, blue eyes.

He feels dizzy. He feels hot. He feels sick to his stomach. Stupid suit, stupid wedding, stupid wine…

"What, is the idea of being with me so  _terrible_  that you can't —"

The floor gives a harrowing lurch, and so does his chest, his stomach, his  _everything_.

"God — fuck, I —" He pushes again, but this time with his hands, and Lance takes a few steps back from the impact. Keith whirls away, hurrying off the dance floor after a stern command of, " _Don't_  follow me, Lance."

Because he knows that he'll try. He  _always_  tries. But Keith can't handle it this time. He can't stay and watch the aftermath of his own chaos, the only thing he's ever truly cared about go up in flames.

He has to leave. He has to get away. Toothpaste, toothpaste,  _toothpaste_.

* * *

"What can I get for you?"

When Keith blinks his dull, filmy eyes, he finds himself sitting in the quiet gloom of the hotel lounge, under the curious gaze of a well-meaning bartender.

"Uh…" The last thing he needs is more alcohol, but he figures he's too numb to really feel it, anyway. "Jack and coke is fine."

The bartender nods once, retreats to the shelves, and Keith goes back to staring at the lacquered hardwood of the countertop. His restless hands dig into the left pocket of his suit jacket, then the right, and then concludes that Lance must've swiped his pack of cigarettes before he slipped it on this afternoon. Fuck.  _Lance_.

"Need a smoke?"

His head turns toward the gruff voice at the other end of the bar. A dark-haired man in a tux is offering out his own pack, but Keith hardly notices the gesture as he stares, dumbstruck.

"…Dad?" His voice is small, barely recognizable. "What are — shouldn't you be…?"

 _With your wife? Enjoying your wedding reception?_  It seems like such an obvious question, and so Keith lets it hang in the air, unspoken. His father chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates against Keith's bones, and retracts his hand.

"I won't keep everyone waitin' for too long. Just needed to step away," he says. "All those big crowds, all that socializin' — it gets to 'ya after a while."

Keith blinks. Like father, like son, he supposes.

A full glass of rich liquid appears on a cocktail napkin in front of him, and the sight alone makes his stomach roll, but he still brings the drink to his lips, and takes a hearty swig. It burns going down, harsh and searing.

"Never have been very good with words, have 'ya, kid?" his father asks.

"You're one to talk," Keith is quick to fling back, as if it'd been perched on his tongue, ready to take wing. "I hear from you maybe twice a year for four years, and then all of a sudden I find a wedding invitation in the mail."

His dad chugs the remaining contents of his own glass, and then mumbles, "Guess so."

Keith targets him with a spiteful glare. "I didn't even know you were seeing someone."

"'Ya never asked."

"I shouldn't  _have_  to."

"Well, she's been dyin' to meet'cha, y'know," says his father. "Krolia, I mean."

"I've been here all night," Keith reminds. "She could've said something to me if she really wanted to."

"Yeah, that was her one condition — wanted  _me_  to introduce the two of 'ya myself," he laughs again, shakes his head, as if the condition were a ludicrous one. "And that woman of mine… there's no shakin' her once she gets her mind made up."

Keith's fingers curl around his glass, clenching and unclenching, lips loosening from the spike of alcohol in his veins as he mutters, "Hard to imagine someone like that would put up with a lazy  _drunk_  like you."

"She wouldn't," his father replies matter-of-factly. "So I changed my ways."

"Really?" Keith raises a skeptical brow at the empty drink in the man's hand.

He gives it a jiggle, ice cubes tinkling against the glass. "Water."

" _Right_."

"Still don't believe in your old man, huh?"

Keith shrugs, a heavy awfulness settling into his shoulders. "You've never really given me much reason to."

"Then think what 'ya want," his father says, easing back into his seat with crossed arms, and a distinctive smirk that has Keith reliving some very fuzzy memories. "You'd like her, though. A lot alike, you 'n her. She doesn't let me get away with much, but I wouldn't've gotten my act together again if it weren't for her. Haven't met someone like that since your mother. Sometimes love makes 'ya do some crazy things, kid."

Another mouthful makes its way down Keith's throat. "That's not always such a good thing," he grumbles.

"It's only a bad thing if you're scared."

"But weren't  _you_  scared, though?" Keith lowers his drink, lifts his head, and comes to the frightening realization that he has, in fact, presented the question aloud. "I mean, weren't you scared that she'd get sick of how messed up you are, and just… leave?"

The older man's jaw softens, ever so slight, smirk edging on smile. And then Keith detects a merciful glisten in his eye that, for the first time in years, buffers some of the deep-rooted resentment he feels.

"Terrified," he says. "Every day I woke up expectin' her to be gone, 'cause I knew she deserved better, and 'ya know what? That made me wanna  _be_  better."

Hesitantly, Keith allows himself to think of Lance. Not the shattered, teary-eyed Lance that he abandoned on the dance floor, but the loyal, patient, extraordinarily radiant boy that Keith adores.  _That_  Lance deserves better.

"She never did end up runnin' for the hills, though," his father continues, gaze steady even from several seats away. "'Cause lemme tell 'ya somethin', kid — the right one is worth the risk. 'Cause the right one'll  _never_  leave."

Keith stares back, clinging to what mettle still remains, unblinking, as if he fears that, in that swift blip of blindness, he'll lose sight of the man before him — the man that he's always wished his father would be. Maybe it's true. Maybe he really  _has_  changed.

He's still pondering, still marveling, when: "Bartender —" and his father is waving a hand. "Another jack and coke over here."

Keith's eyes flit down to his glass, which has somehow been emptied far quicker than expected. "Uh, Dad, you don't have to —"

"Aw, c'mon, let your old man buy 'ya another drink," he grins, and, for a flicker of a moment, four whole years doesn't seem like such a long time. "Sounds like we got a lot of catchin' up to do."

* * *

_Thump, thump, thump…_

At first, Keith thinks that someone might be knocking at the door.

_Thump, thump, thump…_

Or maybe he just has some very noisy neighbors above him.

_Thump, thump, thump…_

But then he's stirring, weighted eyelids blinking away the last dregs of slumber, and that thumping noise turns out to be his brain, pummeling and thrashing against the inside of his skull like a caged animal. Through the bleariness of his vision, Keith can barely make out the vague shape of a light, airy canopy draping down the sides of the bed. A decorative heart-shaped pillow is tucked under his right arm. And since when did these modest, hotel-grade bed sheets start feeling so luxurious…

Keith bolts himself upright with a start, glancing around the unfamiliar space. This is not his hotel room — rather, some kind of fancy suite. And the realization hits him harder than the pain of his pulsating head, the swirl of nausea in his gut, sharper and more cruel than the sting of —

Oh, right. The alcohol.  _All that alcohol._

His mind may not remember much after that second jack and coke, but his senses certainly do. Just the mere thought of anything sliding down into his stomach has him flinging the pillow aside, hurtling out of bed, and making a mad dash for the bathroom. He barely makes it in time, nosediving into the toilet bowl, the sound of his retching echoing against every polished surface. When his chest starts heaving for air, nothing but saliva dripping off his dry lips, he clambers to his feet and presses the flush lever, resigning himself to feeling weak.  _Pathetic_ , even. And a quick glimpse of his disheveled appearance in the mirror doesn't make matters any better. His hair, a sculpture of entropy, sticks up in all the wrong places, the bags under his eyes are as gray as dead flesh, and his shirt is untucked, wrinkled, and unbuttoned all the way down to his sternum.  _Great_ , he thinks bitterly, bending over the sink to splash a few handfuls of cold water against his face. He looks just as horrible as he feels.

He stumbles back into the spacious suite, past the king-sized bed, and over toward the tidy kitchenette. There isn't much in the refrigerator, save for a few bottles of water that Keith hopes are complimentary as he grabs one, and chugs it down until it's half empty. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and then notices something on the countertop — a cardboard cup, a black key card, and a small napkin with some sloppy penmanship scrawled on the front:

_Don't forget to drop off the key at the front desk before you leave._

_Talk to you when we get back._

_\- that "lazy drunk" who got you shit-faced last night_

Keith crumples the napkin, and tosses it back onto the counter. "Asshole," he grumbles, though somewhat fondly. Leave it to his father to embark on his honeymoon without so much as a proper farewell. Some things will never change. His hand tentatively lifts the cardboard cup to his nose, and he inhales the potent stench of coffee. It's gone cold by now, but the gesture, he thinks, is admirable. Still, Keith decides to stick with water, fearing that anything else will have him sprinting to the bathroom again.

He must be more of a lightweight than he thought. The recollections come to him like static on a television screen, mottled and distorted, ringing in his ears. Muzzily, he sees himself at the bar, cradling an empty glass. He sees his father's smile across the way, laughing as he regales the humorous tale of how he and Krolia first met. He sees the stern set of his father's brow when Keith tells him that he dropped out of school. Then the vision glitches, crackles with interference, and he can see the banquet hall. He can see himself running off the dance floor. He can see —

Keith shakes his head, but the image continues drumming against his skull, demanding to be felt as well as seen.

_Thump, thump, thump._

_Lance, Lance, Lance._

Sighing through his nose, he grips the edge of the countertop until his knuckles turn white. The image of Lance's fragile blue eyes, staring, a heartbeat away from fracturing, will likely haunt Keith until the day he dies, and he deserves the slowest, most painful, most agonizing of deaths. And Lance, on the other hand, deserves so much  _more_  than that. He deserves someone who doesn't make him cry. Someone who doesn't push him away whenever he wanders too close. Someone who can open their doors wide, and let him inside.

He deserves that — but he doesn't  _want_  that. He wants  _Keith_. He wants chaos, he wants disaster. He wants to tangle himself up in the barbed wire that secures Keith's heart, despite the pain, and smile through the bruises and blood. Because not everyone wants to leave.

The right one will never leave.

The right one is worth the risk.

And if Keith has to risk it all, he'll risk it all for Lance. He'll face his fears for Lance. He'll be  _better_  for Lance.

Without another thought, he swipes the key card off the counter, and barrels out the door, into the pine-sol scented hallway. It takes him a moment to gather his bearings, to figure out this unfamiliar layout, but then he's making a sharp left, rounding the corner toward the elevator. He jabs his thumb repeatedly against the button, and when it doesn't come fast enough, he's rounding another corner, this time toward the stairwell. On his way down, Keith's mind desperately tries to stipple together all the things he wants to say, and how he wants to say them, but plans have never been his forte. He relies on instinct, and when that fails him, he improvises.

His muddled thoughts bring him to the third floor, counting room numbers on the doors that he darts past. 304, 306, 308… Room 310. His original room key must still be in the suite, lost somewhere in the mess of bed sheets, or still in the pocket of his misplaced suit jacket, so he lifts his hand to knock, but his knuckles don't even reach the door before it swings open —

And then Keith finds himself face to face with a pair of almond eyes, dirty blonde hair, and delicately feminine features.

…Oh.

 _Oh_.

The girl grins politely, and mutters a startled  _"excuse me"_  as she steps around Keith, scurrying down the hall in a pair of silver pumps and her purple bridesmaid dress. Keith doesn't watch her go. He just stares at the crack in the door where it's been left open, and, against his better judgement, walks through. His eyes immediately find Lance, sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his boxers, with his head in his hands. He doesn't move until he hears the door creak, and then his neck cranes up, eyes blowing wide.

"Keith —" Lance is on his feet now. "Shit,  _Keith_  —"

But Keith is already gone, back out the door, racing through the hallway, and swallowing down that nauseating curl in his gut before it gets the chance to simmer in his throat. His headache picks up the pace again, too, his mind spitting reprimands with every violent pulse.

What. The fuck. Were you.  _Thinking_.

"Keith!" And Lance is hot on his trail — because  _of course_  he is — seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's still sporting nothing but boxers. "Keith, just wait, I — I can't tell if you're mad or what, but — I'm sorry, okay?"

When he makes it to the elevator, Keith abuses the button again, silently praying that it'll move faster than last time.

"God, it didn't mean — I mean, I was upset, and you went and  _disappeared_  on me, and —"

It doesn't move faster, and Keith has already wasted too much time waiting. Now Lance is close enough to put a hand on Keith's shoulder, and whirl him around.

" — Just listen —"

"Let it  _go_ , Lance," Keith bites, shaking him off. "You don't owe me any explanation."

"What the hell is your problem, then?"

"I don't have one."

"You  _obviously_  have one!" Lance blares. "And I'm over here getting fucking  _whiplash_  trying to keep up with it all. We can get each other off, but we can't be together. We can't be together, but then you're pissed off about me being with someone else —"

Keith snarls, "I'm  _not_  pissed off!"

"You're pissed off, dude! You're so pissed off you don't even  _know_  that you're pissed off!" Lance's arms fold over his bare chest, gaze icy, and risking the heat of Keith's fiery eyes. "And I just wanna know  _why_. Talk to me, Keith. Put me out of my misery. Tell me what's going on in that  _thick fucking head_  of yours — the truth."

The elevator dings behind him, opening its doors, but Keith ignores it with a low rumble of, "The truth?"

Lance nods, straightening his spine, as if bracing himself for a blow. "Hit me with your best shot."

_Thump, thump, thump…_

"The truth is that —"

_I adore you. I want you. I'm dying to let you in._

Keith's mouth is dry, his stare level, and he nearly chokes on the words when he says, "—you should've left a long time ago, Lance."

He steps into the elevator, allows the doors to close on those blue eyes, and descends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Don't you just hate it when a character has a come-to-jesus moment only to have it totally ruined a few minutes later?? 
> 
> Also, in case you're wondering, the song that Lance and Keith dance to at the wedding is "Misty" by Ella Fitzgerald, and you should definitely give it a listen if you want the full impact of that scene. Also because I just think it's one of the most beautiful and romantic songs ever written OK BYE.
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr (starlightments.tumblr.com) if you wanna chat, my dudes.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those blue eyes refuse to move an inch, mesmerized by the rhythmic pulse that beats as fervently and irregularly as a baby bird’s wings, as if he were trying to decode the inner workings of a restive heart, or simply commit the sensation to memory. Until: “You’re scared,” and it’s spoken like a revelation. 
> 
> Keith swallows against the thick lump in his throat. “Terrified.” 
> 
> A frown. “Of me?” 
> 
> A shake of the head. “Of _us.”_
> 
> “ _Oh._ ”

_"Oh, I'm crying your name,_  
_But you won't listen._  
_Oh, tonight was made for two,_  
_But there's one heart missing..."_

* * *

 

“Housekeeping.”

 _Knock, knock, knock._ Dainty knuckles tap against the door.

Silence.

“Housekeeping…?” 

“ _Leave_ ,” says Keith, as if he were purging a hunk of phlegm from the depths of his throat, so rough and violent that he can hear the poor maid scurrying away without another attempt.

His eyelids creak open infinitesimally, but just enough to see that wispy canopy draping in elegant swoops overhead. It’s later, he supposes, and he’s back in the suite, collapsed against the mattress, praying to anyone who’ll listen for the bed to give way, for the floor to open up like a dark void and swallow him whole.

Because getting engulfed by bleak nothingness sounds pretty preferable right about now, he thinks.

And then, somewhere amidst the hellish ringing in his ears, he hears the distinct _per-plunk, per-plunk_ of a defective engine. He rolls off the bed, staggers to the window, stares at Lance’s dilapidated car as it drags itself out of the parking lot, and then remembers that the two of them had driven here together.

Which leaves Keith officially deserted. _Ditched_. And he deserves it, too. 

So he calls Shiro. He doesn’t know who else to call. And when Keith explains the situation over the phone with as little detail as possible, he feels overwhelmingly guilty on two accounts. The first being the concern in his friend’s voice, and knowing that he’s responsible for putting it there. The second being how willingly Shiro agrees to drive fifty minutes out of his way to pick him up, even without any explicit reasoning. Thank god he’s reliable. Thank god he’s _Shiro_.

And thank god he has the decency not to say anything when he pulls up to the front of the hotel, watching from behind the tinted glass of his windshield as Keith emerges from the revolving door looking like he really had been swallowed up by bleak nothingness. And then spit back out again.

Keith can tell that he _wants_ to say something, though. His mouth forms a stern line across his face, and his brow is crinkled so tightly that it almost looks painful. Keith dumps his bag into the back seat, and then slides in next to Shiro, gaze decidedly fixed forward, squinting into the too-bright sunlight.

“You —”

“Just drive,” Keith grumbles.

Aside from that, they begin their trek in an almost companionable silence. Shiro keeps stealing these quick, imperceptible glances out of the corner of his eye, and Keith’s head droops to the side, pretending not to notice. Eventually, he starts tinkering with the radio, desperately searching for something, _anything_ , to break this horrid tension. Country, commercial, soft jazz, commercial, commercial. He settles on something that sounds vaguely like classic rock. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

Shiro’s hand follows shortly after, adjusting one of the knobs until the volume dwindles enough to utter a tentative, but resolute, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Is it about the wedding?” No response. He tries again, “Your dad?”

Still no response. And then:

“Is it about Lance?”

“I’m not playing any guessing games, Shiro!” Keith snaps at once, making himself abundantly clear.

It’s _so_ about Lance.

“Right,” says Shiro, exasperated, and still concerned. Always concerned. “Look, I know you two don’t always see eye to eye about things…”

Keith groans behind a clenched jaw, watching the other cars zip by in bursts of blurry color. Gray, red, dark green, blue… _Blue_. Just like a pair of eyes he knows so well…

“Shiro.”

“— But you never stay mad at each other for very long. I’m sure that whatever happened will just —”

“Stop.”

“— blow over, just like anything else. You two really need to work on talking things out —”

The bursts of color keep coming, faster and faster, until Keith feels like he’s spinning inside those blue eyes. His grip tightens around the leather armrest.

“…Stop the car.”

Shiro frowns. “Well, now you’re just being dramatic.”

“Shiro,” he slurs. “I’m serious. Stop — the fucking — _car_.”

“Keith — Keith!”

The passenger side door swings open wide, and Keith is jumping out before Shiro even has the chance to slam on the breaks. In a panic, he swerves off the road, tires screeching over gravel and dirt that line the side of the highway, while passing cars blare their horns in protest. Shiro clambers out of his seat, and rounds the hood of the car to find Keith a few feet away, bent over at the waist, vomiting into some underbrush. When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm, and falls back onto a patch of dead grass, legs drawn into his chest, face dropping against his knees.

It’s an unnerving scene, like the ominous calm that follows a devastating storm — like when the horizon is hazy, and the ashen clouds cast dark silhouettes over the silent battleground, but they still hang, unmoving, drained of the havoc that once controlled them.

Shiro’s steady footsteps crunch against the crispy blades of grass as he approaches, and then sits himself down beside his friend. He’s looking at him, studying the curve of his spine and the rumpled creases of his clothes from the night before, but there’s no sign of movement.

“Keith,” he says, with so much compassion that it makes Keith’s entire chest ache, “You’re not okay.”

And that’s all it takes to tip him over the edge.

His entire body quakes with the intensity of the first sob that rips out of his throat. Then he’s unfurling himself, and clinging to Shiro so that the man has no choice but to gather Keith into his side, startled but sympathetic. And Keith is breaking down, gasping through the pain, reeling from the guilt. 

“I know,” he chokes, sniveling into the clean cotton of his friend’s shirt. “I fucked up, Shiro. I fucked up, I fucked up, _I fucked up._ ”

“Hey, hey, breathe —” Shiro soothes. “We can figure this out.”

“There’s _nothing_ to figure out. It’s me. _I’m_ the problem,” says Keith. “It’s like… there’s something _wrong_ with me.”

“I don’t think Lance thinks that.”

He blinks his wet eyes, and then, weakly, “How —”

“I know Lance. And I know _you_ even better,” Shiro pauses, and feels the other boy slowly starting to go slack with exhaustion. “Keith, you’re the most relentless person I’ve ever met. But, for some reason, you’re always so quick to give up on _yourself_.”

Keith inhales, breath wavering.

“No matter what you think, it’s never too late to try to make things right.”

An exhale. A release.

And then he thinks, in a moment of bewildering clarity, that maybe Shiro has a point. Maybe he _isn’t_ broken beyond repair. Maybe if he’d just trusted himself the way his friends do — the way Lance does — then he wouldn’t be here, at his lowest, sitting on the side of the highway with a sour stomach and a bruised heart. Then maybe his father’s wedding wouldn’t have turned out as disastrous as he expected it to. Maybe, instead of turning to leave, he would’ve allowed himself to melt into Lance’s arms as they twirled across the dance floor to sweet, lovely lyrics about all the things that Keith never believed in until he started falling for his best friend. Maybe he would’ve woken up nestled into Lance’s chest instead of all by himself, with a dreadful hangover, in that lonely suite. Maybe he’d be in Lance’s car right now, holding his hand, grinning something genuine, en route to home. _Their_ home.

 _Fuck_.

Perspective can be a real _bitch_ sometimes. 

“You know I don’t like to pry, but…” Shiro pipes up again, sounding far too intuitive for his own good. “You and Lance. This was more than just one of your regular arguments, wasn’t it?”

Keith buries himself even further into Shiro’s shirt, and responds with a shameful groan. _He doesn’t even know the half of it._  

“C’mon, you can tell me about it in the car,” he says, good-intentioned amusement creeping into his tone as he peels Keith away, and hoists him to his feet by the hand. The boy wobbles, and Shiro gives him a wary, lifted-brow expression, suddenly fearing for the safety of his leather upholstery. “You’re not going to puke again, are you?”

“No promises.” 

* * *

  

The sun is just beginning to dip below the dusky horizon when Shiro’s car pulls up outside the apartment building, and Keith, every inch of him weary and spent, reaches for his bag out of the back seat.

And then Shiro’s hand is clamping down on his shoulder. “Call if you need anything. I mean it.”

Keith doesn’t even attempt a grin. His lips don’t feel up to the challenge. He nods instead. “I will.”

As the car takes off down the street, Keith loiters by the curb, listening to the quiet hum of the engine wane out of earshot. He surrenders to the weight of his eyelids, letting them close as he steadies himself with a breath, greedily inhaling as much fresh air as his lungs will allow before he goes inside. Because he knows that their apartment, once quaint and cozy, will likely suffocate him. It’ll reek of memories and laughter and Lance’s stupid fruity body wash.

But it’s still home… Isn’t it?

He barely makes it to the bottom step before the front door swings open in a flurry. Keith’s eyes snap to attention when he hears the sound of hurried feet skidding to a halt at the top of the stoop, and it’s too late by the time he realizes that he shouldn’t have looked up.

Because standing there, swathed in twilight’s rose-gold hue, is Lance. Real, breathing, beautiful Lance. And, try as he might, Keith can’t look away, even when his muscles are twitching beneath his skin, begging him to run again. He humors the thought, just for a second, thinking that maybe if he’s fast enough he’ll be able to catch up to Shiro, but then his feet suddenly feel as heavy as his eyelids, tethering him to the concrete like cinderblocks. 

“Hey,” Lance says, breathless and unsure.

“Hey,” Keith says back, equally as breathless, equally as unsure.

“I, uh,” Lance’s throat works as he struggles for words, and then he throws a half-hearted gesture over his shoulder, toward the front door. “I left you a note on the fridge.”

“Well, I’m here now.”

“…Right.”

The moment that passes can’t be more than a few seconds long, but it’s forever-feeling, pulsing in the spaces between Keith’s heartbeats. It’s certainly long enough for him to notice Lance’s gaze, unblinking and slightly startled. He notices his stillness, the way he tries to stand straight and tall despite the sloping sag of his posture, bidden by the weight of a navy blue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Keith’s eyes linger on that bag longer than they should, and Lance must be able to tell, because now he’s gripping the strap tighter, subtly nudging it around his hip until it hangs behind his back, as if hiding it from view.

“So, uh, anyway. I think I’m gonna stay with Hunk. I got my share of the rent covered for next month, but after that…” Lance’s voice trails off vaguely, implying the rest with a small shrug. “Just thought you should know. In case you can’t, like, afford this place on your own. So. Y’know. Heads up.” 

Keith stares, processing the words, replaying them over and over inside his head until they’re distorted and don’t even sound like words at all. But somehow, through the roaring gibberish of his mind, he manages to understand the essence. He feels it, as heavy and awful as a blow to the gut. _No, don’t do this. Come back to me._ And when he tries to speak, his lungs betray him, emptying with a gust of breath and nothing more than a hoarse, “ _Oh_.”

Lance’s brow crinkles, just the slightest inch. “What?”

“Nothing,” Keith mumbles. “I — yeah. I’ll figure something out.”

“I mean, you told me I should leave,” he says. “So I’m leaving.”

The bitterness cuts through the arid evening like a knife, so sharp and pithy that it makes Keith flinch, though he turns his face in an attempt to mask it.

“Lance,” is all he says, half warning, half plea.

Then, to both of their surprise, Lance scoffs — a harsh, resentful noise that Keith didn’t even know he was capable of making — and begins descending the steps. He blows past Keith, crashing their shoulders together without even a fleeting glance, and marches down the sidewalk to where his car is parked along the curb.

“Pretty much _exactly_ what you wanted, right?”

Keith looks up, seemingly more jarred by Lance’s parting words than the rough nudge that almost had him tripping backwards. He barely has time to study Lance’s retreating back before he’s chasing after him, impulsive and sudden, taking two steps for every one of Lance’s. 

“What about what _you_ want?” He calls out, gaining momentum.

Lance stops beside his car, fumbling for his keys. “Doesn’t really matter what I want, I guess.”

“It matters,” says Keith.

Shaking his head, Lance tugs open the back door. “No, it —”

Keith’s hand darts out, palm splayed against the window, and pushes the door shut again with a resounding slam. “It fucking _matters_ , Lance,” he growls.

Lance grips the front of Keith’s shirt, fingers curling into wrinkled fabric, and shoves him away from the curb. “Why the hell do _you_ care all of a sudden? Where was all this _fucking_ _concern_ when I was telling you how I felt and you just —” Teeth clamp down hard on his tongue. Keith can tell by the clench of his jaw, the conflict swimming in his eyes. Almost as if he were daring himself to finish the thought. But he doesn’t dare. He lowers his voice, hollow and resigned, “Look. Keith, I… It doesn’t matter ‘cause we don’t even want the same thing. Y’know? Like, totally opposite ends on the spectrum of wants. You don’t want anything serious, but guess what? I do. I _want_ that. I want someone who — I dunno — brings me flowers, and doesn’t let go of my hand when our friends walk in the room, and… someone who actually _likes_ when I do all that crummy romantic stuff. And I want that with —”

 _You_.

Again, he doesn’t dare finish such a dangerous admittance, but Keith still hears it clear as day. Lance wants him. Even after this. Even after _everything_. They’ve fought, and shattered, and picked up the pieces, and fallen apart again more times than Keith can even recall, but, still, they’re standing here now, straddling the line made up of all their _what-if’s_ and _could-have-been’s_. And Lance is still staring at him like even the brightest stars can’t compare, his heart bleeding, but open. And Keith is stuck wondering if he even realizes how remarkable he is — how good and fearless and _wanted_ he is.

A breath hangs idle in Keith’s lungs. He wants Lance, too. And it shouldn’t floor him as much as it does because he’s always known about this root-deep, heart-wrenching, fiery-veined want — but, for the first time, he finally allows it to consume him. He gives in. He doesn’t fight.

“Lance,” Keith breathes.

But it isn’t an answer. It isn’t _anything_. So Lance sighs, and begins walking around to the other side of his car. “Like I said. Totally opposite ends.” 

He moves swiftly, but Keith can see his eyes glistening with unshed tears. The bronze sunlight reflects off their glossiness, even as he ducks his head, and reaches for the car door, and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t —

“I wanna bring you flowers.”

Lance stops dead.

He’s staring at his hand, floating inches away from the door handle, stunned into stillness as if it were made of marble rather than flesh. Then he’s slowly lifting his face because that couldn’t possibly be what Keith had just said. “What?”

Suddenly, it feels like the ground shifts beneath their feet. The world itself expands, and then shrinks, until it’s only them.

“ _I_ wanna bring you flowers,” Keith repeats, more firm. Lance is still gawking, and Keith doesn’t quite know how to proceed, so he pushes his fingers through his unkempt hair, and says, “I — _shit_ , I’m not good at this — but I… want to. I want… just _you_.”

Lance’s voice comes out so low, so small. “But you said —”

“I know what I said,” says Keith, chancing a step forward. “But _fuck_ what I said. I didn’t mean it. Okay?”

Finally, Lance blinks owlishly, and the moisture clears, gathering in sparkling clumps at the corners. “Okay…”

He sounds confused. And he _looks_ confused. In a cute way, Keith accidentally notes, with his impeccably sculpted brows pinching together, and his watery eyes twinkling with hopeful intrigue, and — _focus_. And then Keith comes to the sudden realization that Lance probably expects him to elaborate. Because for all their years of togetherness, they still, somehow, haven’t learned how to read each other’s minds.

“I can’t just… open up. Sometimes,” Keith rambles, lips moving on their own accord. “If I keep enough distance, then… it’s easier. But you — I can’t — even though I _did_ —”

“Keith,” Lance interrupts. “I appreciate that this is, like, a big soul-baring moment for you and everything, but you’re not making any sense.” 

A sigh. Keith and words have always had a somewhat complicated relationship. They never seem to come out right, especially in the most crucial of moments, and when they do, they’re prickly, stiff, and rarely make the situation any better. For once, he knows what he wants to say — just doesn’t know how to say it. But he knows how he _feels_ , and he wants Lance to feel it, too. So he steps forward again, reaches for Lance’s limp hand, and presses it against the center of his chest.

Because _this_ is real. _This_ makes sense.

Lance stares reverently at the spot where Keith’s heart jumps wildly beneath his palm.

“That,” Keith says, quiet. “That’s all _you_.”

Those blue eyes refuse to move an inch, mesmerized by the rhythmic pulse that beats as fervently and irregularly as a baby bird’s wings, as if he were trying to decode the inner workings of a restive heart, or simply commit the sensation to memory. Until: “You’re scared,” and it’s spoken like a revelation.

Keith swallows against the thick lump in his throat. “Terrified.”

A frown. “Of me?”

A shake of the head. “Of _us_.”

“ _Oh_.” 

“But that’s no excuse for what I did — or what I said,” says Keith. He’s only half-aware that his hand is still covering Lance’s, and he’s even less aware when he gives it a gentle squeeze. “Lance, you… are so much _better_ than me —”

“Come _on_ , dude, really?” Lance gripes, sounding more disappointed than he does irritated, and slips his hand away to fold his arms over his chest. “‘It’s not you, it’s me’? _That_ old cop-out?”

“No, I —” Keith stutters, desperate for understanding — desperate for _Lance’s_ understanding. “I — want to be better. For you. If you’ll let me.”

Those words seem to prick Lance’s surface, insignificant, just a paper cut’s depth. And then, all at once, they crash over him in one all-encapsulating wave, smothering him, drowning him, so that he has to lean against his car just to keep himself upright. “Hold on, I… need a minute,” he mumbles disbelievingly, and presses a palm over his eyes. “I didn’t really get around to sleeping last night, which means there’s a pretty good chance of me being so delirious right now that I’m just making this up inside my head.” 

“You’re not making this up, Lance.”

“That’s exactly what a figment of my imagination _would_ say.”

Keith catches himself before he can crack even the slightest grin. _God, he adores him._

“Can I… think about it?” Lance says, peeking through the cracks of his fingers. “I guess that’s probably not the answer you were hoping to hear, but, it’s just — today’s been… _weird_. Right? Like, we can both agree that today was basically a total shit-fest? And my mind’s all sorts of mixed up right now and —”

“Take your time,” says Keith.

A minute, a day, an eternity — he’ll wait for Lance. 

While Lance tosses his duffel bag into the back seat, Keith heads over to the stoop, and pauses on the bottom step with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. _Per-plunk, per-plunk, per-plunk_ , Blue’s engine coughs as she’s brought to life, and then she’s carrying him away, disappearing around the shadowy bend. Keith’s gaze lingers there for a while longer, until his restless hands are fidgeting with something small and cylindrical at the bottom of his pocket — most likely obtained from his father, at some point. He removes the cigarette, twists it around between his fingertips, and then flicks it over the edge of the stoop, allowing his eyes to travel back to where Lance had been just moments before.

_The right one will never leave._

Keith just has to trust that that’s true. 

* * *

  **  
May 2018**

 

A week goes by, and Keith is still waiting.

He wakes up early, goes for a run, showers, and heads to work. The same routine. But when he returns home, there’s no one waiting up for him on the couch, with a big blown out grin, and a casual _‘Hey, mullet. Miss me?’_ There’s no one to bicker with about things that don’t matter. There’s no one grabbing his wrist and coyly toting him to his bedroom. And there’s no one there when he wakes up again — just blurry vestiges of a dream, and a lingering scent on his pillowcase.

Sometimes Shiro comes over for the evening. Just happens to be in the neighborhood, he claims, but Keith knows he’s checking in on him. The company is nice, even though Shiro always insists on brewing him a soothing cup of mint tea, which, coincidentally, isn’t all that soothing, and kind of tastes like wet grass, and even though he hovers.

Even though he isn’t _Lance_.

And it’s not like Keith can’t function in this new, Lance-less existence. It’s not like colors fade, or the stars don’t shine, or his heart doesn’t beat. Time passes. The sun sets. Spring warms into summer. 

It’s just…

There’s something missing.

There’s just _something_ missing. 

 

* * *

Lance used to think that the world spun faster when Keith was around.

And, truthfully, it isn’t such an absurd thought. He’s always been the first one out of the gate, a whirlwind of impulse, more hurricane than boy. And sometimes Lance would feel as though he’d blink and time would pass, wild and reckless, just like Keith, until the gale-force winds picked up again, and whisked him away into another direction.

But now he knows that isn’t true. Because now it’s suddenly graduation day, and he doesn’t know how that happened so quickly, and Lance hasn’t seen Keith since the day he moved out, and he still feels like he’s spinning, violently, out of orbit.

It makes him wonder. Maybe he’s been wrong all along. Maybe this is life’s natural, wayward pace, and the only reason Lance _hasn’t_ been swept away by the undertow is because of Keith keeping him grounded, a rock in the midst of raging currents.

An anchor. _His_ anchor.

No wonder he feels as though he’s drifting out to sea. Sinking, more like. _Drowning_.

Even though he shouldn’t be.

It’s a balmy summer day, and there’s a diploma with his name on it, and he’s earned it. He sits between Hunk and Pidge on the bottom row of metal bleachers, overlooking the entire expanse of their university’s football field. The ceremony has just ended, and the manicured lawn is still bustling with graduates — mingling, celebrating, snapping photos with friends and family.

And then Hunk is sighing, his sentimental gaze sweeping the area, and says, “I know it’s crazy, but… I think I’m actually gonna _miss_ it.” 

“Ahh, don’t sweat it, big guy,” Lance swings an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “Pretty soon you’ll be back in the classroom, changing the world one foie gras at a time.” 

“Yeah, but it won’t be the same without you guys,” he admits ruefully. “I mean, Pidge won’t even be in the same _state_ anymore!” 

The boys toss a glance over at their other friend, who tips her graduation cap, raises two fingers into a peace sign, and sings a cheeky, “Later, suckers.”

Lance snorts. “You'll miss this face.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s inevitable, Pidge. I’m charming, and irresistible, and you’re gonna cry yourself to sleep every night.”

“ _Sure_.”

The three of them laugh, and — _yeah_. Maybe it _is_ a little inevitable.

Through a smile, Pidge asks, “What about you, Lance?”

The question makes his stomach twist into knots. It’s the same one he’s been hearing all year from classmates, professors, and well-meaning family members. If only he had a good answer.

“I think I might head home for a while,” he says, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Nonchalant. No big deal. “Y’know — regroup, recharge, that sorta thing.”

 _Definitely not running away_ , a different part of his mind threatens to add.

Hunk and Pidge share a look, and then Hunk replies, “Oh. Cool, dude.”

“What?” Lance demands. And it’s such a strange, underwhelming response that it has him rounding on the other boy, eyes narrowing. “Tons of people go home after they graduate. Free rent, free meals — it’s a totally _normal_ thing!”

“No, yeah, ‘course it is, it’s just —” Another look. “— we thought you’d maybe wanna stick around here.”

“And why would I wanna do that?”

 _A third look_. And Lance has half a mind to call his friends out on their bizarre behavior, but then they’re both scurrying to their feet, flitting around awkwardly, words pouring out of their lips in a garbled mess.

“Oh, uh, hey, I think I hear Matt calling me. Better go and — check that out…”

“Yeah! And I think I hear… _not_ Matt calling for me. So — right behind you, Pidge!”

“Uh, guys?”

Lance stands there, baffled and bewildered as he watches his friends make a hasty escape, until he feels a careful tap on his shoulder, and whirls around on the spot to find himself face to face with —

“Congrats, grad.”

 _Keith_.

“Hey —” he resists the urge to gasp aloud, mouth falling open noiselessly. “ —you’re _here_.”

“I’m here,” Keith confirms, smiling something warm, and offers out a colorful bouquet.

Lance feels a pleasant heat shooting up the length of his spine. “And you brought me flowers.”

“And I brought you flowers.”

He accepts the gift with trembling hands, cradles the bouquet to his chest like a newborn, and grins down at its vibrant petals. Each one is dainty, sweet-smelling, and utterly _perfect_. Suddenly the tides seem to settle. He feels safe again. Anchored.

His lips part, tongue poised to speak. “Keith, I —”

“Wait,” Keith reaches out, fingertips brushing feather-light against Lance’s elbow. “Before you say anything, I need to apologize. For everything. For making you feel like you didn’t matter. For pushing you away. I’m… sorry, Lance.”

Those blue eyes are studying every subtle movement of his face, and Keith is promptly transported back to the coast of Veradero beach, one year past. He’s reminded of sunsets, and lazy afternoons, and crystalline waves, and Lance’s niece’s toothless grin as she talks about — _oh_. That’s it. Lance is looking at him like he looks at the stars.

And then he’s smiling, a little lopsided, but Keith can feel its warmth all the way down to his toes. “You’re getting better at that,” he points out. “The whole heartfelt confession thing.” 

“Shiro helped,” Keith admits.

“Oh, god. Did he make flashcards?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

They laugh, gently, and it sounds like a beautifully practiced duet. If Keith could record that sound, he thinks, he’d play it on repeat for the rest of his days.

“Well, consider your apology accepted,” Lance says. “But that doesn’t mean you can start slacking. Next time, I expect a twenty-piece orchestra serenade, maybe some pyrotechnics or a _skywriter_ …”

Keith’s grin brightens, hopeful. “Next time?”

“What can I say?” Lance shrugs. “I’m a sucker for second chances. Probably ‘cause I’m such a great, generous guy and all.”

“If you wanna get technical,” says Keith, “this is more like my _fifteenth_ chance.”

“I repeat: great, generous guy over here.”

More laughter, soft and breathless, because Keith’s lungs have finally gone numb. He knows that the oxygen is coming and going from his body, but the only thing he can feel in that moment is Lance’s touch as he inches a hand outward, fingers hooking into the belt loops of Keith’s pants. Just a few inches more and the bouquet would be trapped between their chests, petals tickling their collarbones as they lean closer, closer, _closer_ …

“Can you two idiots just hurry up and make out already so we can go eat?”

— But not close _enough_. They pull apart, as if a spell has been broken, and glance over to the distance where their friends have gathered in a conspiratorial clump, flashing knowing grins, and smug expressions.

Pidge cups her hands around her mouth, and calls out, “We have dinner reservations in an hour and I’m _starving_!” 

Lance turns back around, not looking even the least bit guilty. “You heard her, Kogane. Guess we better get to smooching.”

“Don’t act like you don’t _want_ to kiss me right now,” Keith smirks.

“Don’t act like you don’t want me to _want_ to kiss you right now.”

“Oh, my god, _shut up_.”

Lance’s arm swings around Keith’s neck at the exact same time Keith grabs the front of his graduation gown, and tugs him in. Their lips crash together, willing and eager, and Keith can hear their hearts beating in a perfect unison.

 

* * *

 

The door creaks open, hinges rusty. _They still need to get that fixed soon_ , says a quiet little voice in the back of Keith’s distracted mind.

It’s late by the time they stumble through their front door. It’s dark, but the pathway across their living room is well-traveled, committed to memory, even with their limbs tangled, and their mouths battling for dominance. Familiar, but not quite the same, and Keith can’t put his finger on it. Because Lance is still Lance, and Keith is still Keith. And Lance still smells like mangos and sea salt, and his kisses are still soft and pouty, and he still pushes Keith back onto the bed with the same sense of urgency, and crawls on top of him with the same lust-blown eyes, and nips at the skin of his neck with a low, tantalizing purr of, “ _Mine_.” And —

Oh. _There_ it is.

Gone are the secrets, and the uncertainties, and the unspoken parameters of their affections. Keith thinks back to how many times he’s had to hold back in situations like this — with Lance straddling his hips in a not-so-innocent way, debauched and gorgeous — and how many times he’d have to bite his tongue until it bled to keep from spewing something stupid and moment-ruining. He remembers all the stern reminders and reality checks that blinked red inside his brain while Lance moaned into his ear, red-cheeked and coming undone.

_He isn’t yours, he isn’t yours._

But now he _is_ , and Keith doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

He rolls them over, pins Lance’s shoulders to the mattress so that they’re chest to chest, and Keith is struck dumb by the way moonlight filters through his paper-thin curtains, casting a pale glow over Lance’s face.

This is when he stops to think, after seeing it in Lance’s eyes: _he’s in love with me_. And, seeing it in his own heart: _I’m in love with him_. It’s cheesy, and ridiculous, and downright nauseating, and Keith laughs the silliness and the happiness against Lance’s cheek, so sudden that Lance can only laugh, too, wrapping his arms around him.

“What’s so funny, babe?”

And Keith answers, with his lips to his and without his voice: _I’m an idiot, and I love you._

**. . .**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN TBH. 
> 
> First of all, I want to apologize for the longer than usual wait for this final chapter. I've had it 90% done for weeks now, but I just kept tweaking it and tweaking it because -- honestly -- I was weirdly nervous about finishing this fic?? It was like I was getting stage fright or something. I've gotten so many sweet, wonderful messages about this story, and the last thing I wanted to deliver was an unsatisfying ending. So I was feeling like nothing would be good enough. It's a silly thought, I know, but I'm just so very thankful to my readers and I don't want anyone to be disappointed! But obviously I got over my fears because HERE WE ARE!! I finally got it to a point where I was happy with how everything wrapped up, and I hope you feel the same. :) 
> 
> Second of all, on a related note, I want to THANK EVERYONE SO, SO MUCH HOLY SHIT. Whether you've commented, bookmarked, reached out to me on tumblr, or have just been silently reading along, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I love sharing my work with others, and the fact that I've maybe inspired, touched, or entertained anyone during the course of this is just..... like.... wow. 
> 
> I've recently started working on another Klance fic, and the first chapter is now available to read! I hope to see some familiar names sticking around for that one, too. As always, ya'll can find me on tumblr (starlightments.tumblr.com) if you wanna chat, and I love you all so very, very much.


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